


All I Ask

by VisibleWorld



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bed-sharing, Bottom!Sam, First Time, Heart-to-Hearts, M/M, Shower Sex, Terminal Illnesses, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisibleWorld/pseuds/VisibleWorld
Summary: “We can keep him comfortable.”Comfortable meant they were giving up.AU of 01.12: Faith. What if Dean hadn’t spoken up at the faith healer? What if no one could save him?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 23
Kudos: 61





	All I Ask

_ I will leave my heart at the door _

_ I won't say a word _

_ They've all been said before, you know _

_ So why don't we just play pretend? _

_ Like we're not scared of what's coming next _

_ Or scared of having nothing left _

_ Look, don't get me wrong _

_ I know there is no tomorrow _

_ All I ask is _

_ If this is my last night with you _

_ Hold me like I'm more than just a friend _

_ Give me a memory I can use _

_ Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do _

_ It matters how this ends _

_ 'Cause what if I never love again? _

_ I don't need your honesty _

_ It's already in your eyes _

_ And I'm sure my eyes, they speak for me _

_ No one knows me like you do _

_ And since you're the only one that matters _

_ Tell me who do I run to? _

_ Look, don't get me wrong _

_ I know there is no tomorrow _

_ Let this be our lesson in love _

_ Let this be the way we remember us _

_ I don't wanna be cruel or vicious _

_ And I ain't asking for forgiveness _

_ All I ask is _

_ If this is my last night with you _

_ Hold me like I'm more than just a friend _

_ Give me a memory I can use _

_ Take me by the hand while we do what lovers do _

_ It matters how this ends _

_ 'Cause what if I never love again? _

Comfortable. Sam didn’t think he could feel such vehemence for a word. If he really wanted to dissect it, it wasn’t the word. It was what it implied. Comfortable meant we’re giving up. Comfortable meant if Sam and Dean didn’t know what they know, Dean was going to die. Comfortable meant Sam was going to have to do what he always did, figure it out.

Sam’s legs felt like lead as he headed back to Dean’s room. Some sick part of Sam wished that the doctor had let him be the one to break the news to Dean. Not because Sam had some nicer bedside manner or would have cut out all the bullshit I’m so sorrys that the doctor had surely strewn throughout his diagnosis. No, if he had let Sam do it Sam would have at least had the chance to lie. A chance to tell Dean that he was going to be fine in a few days so that there would be no one to question whatever magic he used or deal he made to get Dean better.

Now he was going to have to listen to Dean bitch at him and tell him to leave it alone and to let him die in peace. It was going to be bullshit but hearing the words was going to break what little patience he already had and then they were going fight. Pointless fights that were going waste what little time Sam had to fix this.

****

Dean heard heavy footsteps outside his door and felt himself straighten. Posing himself as if his posture would ease Sam’s worry, his sadness. Dean had fought not to roll his eyes at the doctor, but the man had been in his room for all of ten minutes when everything could have been boiled down to six words. Massive heart attack, a month at most.

Some woman cried out on the television screen before running into some man’s arms. Dean shook his head. Sometimes he felt like his life could be one of these shows. Everything was so predictable. Eat. Sleep. Hunt. The occasional surprise to keep it somewhat interesting. Him dying? That was pretty damn interesting if he did say so himself. He’d watch.

Dean knew Sam was going to come in here all dejected like some kicked dog, saying that he wasn’t going to let Dean die. Let. Like Dean had some choice in the matter. Like anyone did.

Dean saw Sam enter the room out the corner of his eye and didn’t bother looking away from the television. “You ever actually watch daytime TV? It’s terrible.”

Sam didn’t even acknowledge him. “I talked to your doctor.”

Fine. Dean could play that game too. “That fabric softener teddy bear? I wanna hunt that little bitch down.”

“Dean.” Sam sounded desperate like if Dean didn’t look at him right then the world was gonna end. Sam was always better at the silent treatment than Dean. Grudges, too.

Dean sighed, shutting the TV off with a resolute click of the remote. “Yeah, well. Looks like you’re gonna leave town without me.”

Sam scoffed. “What are you talking about? I’m not gonna leave you here.”

“You better take care of that car. I swear I’ll haunt your ass.” Dean couldn’t help but smile at the thought of pulling all his usual pranks on Sam and then some.

Sam’s lips didn’t even twitch. “I don’t think that’s funny.”

Dean smirked. “Oh, come on. It’s a little funny.”

Sam looked away, his eyes burning as they filled with tears.

For someone whose heart wasn’t up to snuff, Dean’s clenched like a vice. Fuck, at least when he was gone, he wouldn’t have to watch his brother cry. A few years ago, after he got sliced up by a wendigo, Dean thought it would be a good idea to catalog his pain. That way when something like that happened, he could have something to distract him, something concrete to do while he healed. A way of sorts to make his pain mean something other than he was too slow or not smart enough. Punches and being thrown against a wall were on the lower end. Stabbings and slashings towards the center. Broken bones and burns at the top of the scale. Sam’s eyes turning glassy with tears…well, that threw his scale all out of whack.

Dean sighed, instinctively ready to make it right. “Look, Sammy. What can I say? It’s a dangerous gig. I drew the short straw. That’s it, end of story.”

Sam looked back at him. Tears ready to fall but needing that last push, one blink to send them on their way. Dean found himself waiting for them, needing them to fall just to get it over with. “Don’t talk like that, alright? We still have options.”

“What options? Burial or cremation?” It was a bad joke. Especially when they both knew that a hunter’s burial was a salt and burn.

Sam didn’t look like he was gonna cry anymore. He looked disgusted. Dean could live with that. “I know it’s not easy, but…” Dean steeled himself. No one had said the words yet. Not even the doctor. But they needed to be said, so there was no mistaking it, no beating around the bush. “I’m gonna die and you can’t stop it.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and nodded to himself as if he had been waiting for Dean to say those exact words. Dean had seen that look on his brother’s face before. When they had stumbled upon a particularly gnarly creature that was going to be a bitch to put down or a homework problem that just wasn’t coming out right and he was already burning the midnight oil. It was a look of resolve with just a hint of smugness and a dash of anger.

“Watch me.”

****

Sam left the hospital the moment Dean fell asleep. He couldn’t find anything to write a note to let Dean know that he hadn’t left town, so he left his hoodie. In Sam’s head, Dean would at least think that he was coming back for it. His was phone barely to his ear before he pressed Dial. It rang and rang and rang before the machine picked up.

_ This is John Winchester. I can’t be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean – 866-907-3235. He can help. _

Sam left a message. His words falling over each other to explain before the time ran out. Sam kept his speedometer between the limit and do you know how fast you were going, sir to make it to their motel in record time.

He had printed some stuff out at the library which had been thankfully only a few minutes’ walk from the hospital. Pages upon pages of diagrams of hearts both human and animal. Sam couldn’t believe that pig hearts were used instead of humans' in some cases of transplants. It was rare and the insurance they had, read: none, was not going to pay for experimental procedures.

Every time Sam hit a wall in his research, he picked up his phone. After a few hours, it was rote. Read an article about some faith healer one of Dad’s contacts told him about. Read two others about how he saved someone’s life. Read three more calling him a fraud. Get discouraged. Call John. Leave a message. Read a promising excerpt from a medical journal. Get discouraged. Take a swig out of the top shelf bottle Sam had found in the trunk. Call John. Leave a message just a bit more pitiful and slurred than the last.

Sam felt a twinge at his fingertips. He looked down to see that he had bitten his nails down to the quick, spilled alcohol burning at the spots where the cuticle was raw. Sam glanced at the clock by the bedside, one twenty-five in glowing red digits looked back at him with judgment. Sam sighed. He had to at least try to sleep if he wanted to stay awake with Dean at the hospital tomorrow. Not that he would need much energy if tomorrow was going to be anything like today. Sam would research, taking the occasional break for food or to play poker with Dean, help Dean to the bathroom, watch nurses pump him full of whatever was keeping him ‘comfortable’.

Sam was organizing his research, separating it into three piles; Bullshit, Maybe Bullshit, Definitely Bullshit, when there was a knock at the door. Sam got up slowly, a piece of him thankful for a distraction. He wasn’t sure who or what he expected at the door, but it definitely wasn’t his brother. His sick brother. His sick brother who was supposed to be at the damn hospital. The small flicker of anger and worry faded at the sight of his brother grinning at him. Dean harped on Sam and the ‘puppy dog look’ he gave to get his way; Dean had his mega-watt smile.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I checked myself out.” Dean’s voice was raspy like he’d just woken up. 'Check myself out', his ass. He snuck out. Sam wanted to call him out on it but knew it would just be pointless. The actual point being that Dean was out and if Sam wanted him back there, he was going to have to drag him.

“Are you crazy?”

Dean looked smaller, older as he made his way into the room, leaning on the TV for balance. “I’m not gonna die in the hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.”

Sam fought the urge to roll his eyes as he shut the door with a bit too much force. He really wasn’t in the mood to let Dean devil-may-care his way out of this. Sam chuckled mirthlessly, a laugh he saved for when he was trying to decide whether or not to hit someone. “You know, this whole ‘I laugh in the face of death’ thing? It’s bullshit. I can see right through it.”

Dean raked his eyes over Sam. “Yeah, whatever, dude. Have you even slept? You look worse than me.”

Sam couldn’t watch Dean struggle anymore and gave in quickly to the urge to help him to the chair. He didn’t bother answering the question. They both knew the answer anyway. Sam wasn’t going to sleep until Dean was better. “I’ve been scouring the internet for the last three days and calling every contact in Dad’s journal.”

“For what?”

Sam didn’t rise to the bait. What else would he be looking for? “For a way to help you.” Sam reached over to pluck one of the many notepads he’d filled. “One of Dad’s friends, Joshua, he called me back. He told me about a guy in Nebraska…a specialist.” Not technically a lie but close enough for government work. Sam knew that if he mentioned anything about faith or healer it was gonna make Dean dig his heels in even more than he already was.

“You’re not gonna let me die in peace, are you?”

Sam smiled. “I’m not letting you die, period. We’re going.”

Dean shook his head before getting up and heading to the bathroom.

****

Dean leaned against the bathroom door as he shrugged out of his clothes. It took longer than usual, and he had to give himself a few minutes to rest on the toilet seat, out of breath from that little work. If someone had bothered to ask him how he was feeling, Dean would say it was fatigue. A bone-deep fatigue, the feeling after running too long or lifting something too heavy.

It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sam, didn’t believe that Sam thought he could save him, but Dean knew that the longer Sam kept his hopes up it was going to be that much more devastating when it all came crashing down around them. Dean had accepted it. That small chance that whatever Sam had found had worked was the icing on the cake. If it worked, it worked and if it didn’t…Dean accepted that he was going to be the one to pick up the pieces.

Dean turned the shower on, turning the temperature as hot as it would go. Ever since he got hurt, he just couldn’t seem to get warm. It was at least sixty degrees outside, and Dean felt goosebumps on his skin the moment he got undressed. Dean stepped under the spray, even the hottest wasn’t quite warm enough.

The water sluiced over his face and hair and he took a deep breath, letting the air settle heavy in his chest. He felt his eyes well up and with no one to see he let them fall. Of course, he was scared. Not of dying necessarily, the body was going to do what it was going to do, but leaving things undone? It was terrifying. On paper he was young, still having time for kids and a real job but that was never really on Dean’s radar. Anytime he had let himself get distracted enough to fantasize about the future it was never scenes of kids running in a yard or even hunting, it was just a person. It was just Sam. Sam begging him to play something else. Sam getting pissed that he caught Dean cheating at poker again. Sam trying not to laugh as shuffled the cards. It was just them, living.

And Dean went and fucked it all up. He felt all the things he wanted to say, bubbling up in his chest, fighting to come out in incoherent word vomit. There was so much he kept from Sam. Not all secrets per se but small little stories that made up Dean’s history. Small little stories that Dean always told himself that he was going to tell Sam one day. After Sam graduated. After Sam graduated again. After Sam started speaking to him again. After they got back in their groove. After they found Dad. After they found the thing that killed Mom. After…

Fuck it. Sam liked to talk about shit anyway. Dean was going to talk himself hoarse until his dying breath until he told Sam everything. Even if it meant getting hit or left to his last moments alone. He couldn’t leave without wrapping up everything he had with Sammy in a nice, mangled bow.

Dean jumped at the knock at the door. It was soft like Sam knew that the last thing Dean needed was another heart attack. “Dean?” Dean heard the thin red thread of panic strung throughout his name.

“I’m good, Sammy. Be out in a minute.” The water was getting colder by the minute anyway. Dean shut off the water and got out, wrapping a towel around his waist realizing belatedly that he hadn’t thought to bring any clean clothes in with him. Great. He was going to have to shiver like an idiot while he went through his bag. Dean opened the door not expecting Sam to be crowding the doorway.

“Sorry.” They both said.

Dean cleared his throat. “Might wanna wait to take a shower.”

Sam nodded, unsurprised. Used to Dean and his long, hot showers but now Dean needed them, and he didn’t know how to explain it. “I, um.” Dean followed Sam’s gaze down. Dean recognized the blue of his softest sleep shirt. It was bundled against a pair of his sweats. “I thought you might want something clean.” Sam looked like he was expecting Dean to snap at him.

Dean nodded. “Thanks, Sammy.” Sam didn’t move, a pained look still on his face. “Anything else?”

Sam cleared his throat and Dean wondered for a moment where they both got this nervous tic. If Sam got it from Dean who most likely got it from Dad or if they both got it from Dad. For some reason, the distinction mattered to Dean. “Uh, just…If you need help.” Sam’s face was getting flushed like he was embarrassed. Which didn’t make any sense because they had both seen each other’s junk too many times to count, a side effect of constantly living in each other’s pockets and helping one another get cleaned up when some creature had fucked one of them over so much it hurt to move.

Dean fought not to think too hard about how he could feel the heat coming off Sam in waves and wanted nothing more than to wrap himself up in it until he finally stopped shivering. Too late. Dean was ready to give in but caught himself. He had gotten himself dressed at the hospital, hadn’t he? Dean sighed. “I’ll let you know.” Dean saw a flicker of something skate across Sam’s face too quick to decipher before Sam moved to the side. A small gust of wind and his heat source was gone leaving Dean cold in more ways than one.

Dean dried off quickly. The quicker he was dry, the quicker he’d be dressed and under the covers. He hung the damp towel back in the bathroom, hoping it would be dry by the time Sam needed it. Dean carefully crawled up to the headboard of his bed and flicked on the TV, needing some useless noise to help him sleep. It was playing some black and white that Dean was pretty sure came out before Dad’s dad had hit adolescence. He glanced at Sam’s bed still littered with stacks of paper, opened books, and notepads. Even without the enlarged medical diagrams of organs, Dean didn’t have to guess what the research was about.

Dean watched Sam hastily but painstakingly put it all up, scared to let Dean see too much but not wanting to lose his place. It wasn’t until Sam had stowed away the final stack of printouts that Dean noticed Sam’s hands shaking, hovering in the air. “Sammy?”

Sam’s head flicked towards him but went right back to getting ready for bed. “I’m good.” Sam kicked off his jeans and shrugged out of his shirt, exchanging them for a pair of sweats. Sam shut off the light and got into bed, leaning against the headboard just like Dean. Dean guessed he wasn’t the only one not quite ready for sleep.

If asked later, Dean would say it was the tense lines of Sam’s body and the fact Sam’s bed had a better view of the TV that made Dean slide in beside him. The queen-size bed forcing their arms to touch. Dean relaxed into the warmth just as Sam sighed, relaxing into the bed like it wasn’t actually made of pins. Grayscale figures skittered across the screen but neither of them was really watching, lost in their own thoughts.

A colorful, loud commercial interrupted the grey quiet and Sam tensed. Before Dean could turn to him, Sam shifted down the bed and threw an arm across Dean’s stomach before resting his head against his chest, ear pressed right over Dean’s heart. Dean closed his eyes, feeling Sam’s body rigid against him like he was waiting for Dean to push him away. Dean didn’t trust his voice, so he ran a gentle hand over Sam’s hair, letting it rest at his shoulder blade, the bare skin of Sam’s back warming his fingertips.

Dean felt Sam plucking at the hair on his arm, the annoying way he used to wake Dean up when they were younger. Dean smiled and flipped his arm over. Sam took the hint and entwined their hands. The TV went back to pouring out ashen afterimages and Dean let his eyes shut, lulled by the low tones.

It wasn’t brotherly. Both of them knew it. Neither of them cared.

****

Sam woke up before Dean and he took a few careful moments to listen to the sound of Dean’s heart before he got up. He gently untangled himself from Dean hoping to let him get a few more minutes of rest but Dean was stirring before Sam was even off the bed. “S’mmy?”

“Sorry, but we gotta go,” Sam whispered. They weren’t that far from Nebraska and if they left soon, they would have enough time to get Dean breakfast and get there on time.

Dean blearily nodded and rubbed at his eyes. Sam took a quick shower and was dressed before Dean even got his pants on. Sam tried not to hover but there wasn’t much else he could pretend to do. It seemed cruel to just sit and watch Dean struggle. But while Sam and Dean were very different, they both hated to be coddled. But last night…last night Dean had thrown Sam for a loop on multiple occasions. Sam had helped him to a chair, picked out his nightclothes, and offered to help him get dressed like he was a toddler all without the slightest sneer.

Sam would be lying if he said it wasn’t nice. Sometimes Dean got so used to his mask that he forgot to take it off with Sam, the mask that covered up anything that could be seen as weakness: sadness, fear, love. But it was all bullshit because it meant that Dean was giving up. He was letting things go because he was accepting his fate. Dean wasn’t going to let what could be his last moment with Sam be a stupid argument or pushing Sam away. So as much as Sam liked not having his brother snap at him, he wasn’t going to let him act out his dying wishes because Dean wasn’t going to die.

Last night was nice. Sam let the sound of Dean’s still-beating heart lull him to sleep, the first good night’s sleep he’d had in the past three days. Sam held Dean’s hand because it was the only way to feel his pulse against his own. But it couldn’t happen again. Because it wasn’t them, wasn’t their own emotionally stunted version of normal.

Sam read the frustrated lines on Dean’s face. It wasn’t that it was hard for him to get dressed, it was just taking him longer than usual, the frequent breaks extending the menial task. Sam knew better than to play dumb, asking if Dean wanted or needed help was going to make his hackles rise, new-fangled attitude or not. Sam approached Dean quickly but not too fast, not wanting to give the impression that he was impatient. He knelt in front of Dean, unable to meet his eyes. “Here, let me.” He said softly as if he was talking to himself. Sam let his hands hover for just a split second, enough for a hunter to make a decision, enough time for Dean to push him away.

Sam made quick work slipping Dean’s feet into his pants and in a pair of socks. He started to button them, but Dean stopped him with a firm but gentle grasp of his wrists. “I got it, Sammy.” Dean’s voice was just as quiet. Sam wondered for a moment who was trying to placate who. Sam stood, hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. “Shoes,” Dean muttered, belting his pants.

Right. Sam had them on and laced to perfection just as Dean notched his belt. With their bags already stowed safely in the trunk, there was nothing to do but drive.

****

Dean had felt off from the moment he woke up. Well, more off than what was now his new norm. Sam had gotten out of the bed like it was on fire and was in the shower without so much as a good morning. Fine. Whatever. Dean usually only communicated in grunts until he got his coffee. But that wasn’t all. Sam was acting weird and it was freaking Dean out. Sam had paced the room like a trapped dog while Dean struggled to get dressed, pretending to straighten out the already made bed and putting their bags in the car like those were the tasks that really needed to be done. It was distracting and made Dean feel like he was an invalid.

Dean wondered briefly if he was actually moving as slow as he thought or if it was Sam who was rushing. He was pretty sure it was the latter since they were both ready and out the door within half an hour of waking up. Did Dean even brush his teeth? Nope, definitely didn’t. Gross.

They had at least stopped for breakfast, though Dean did most of the eating, Sam played with his food and tried not to be too obvious that he was trying not to watch Dean eat. Barely a word exchanged between them. Dean had barely finished chewing before Sam was paying the bill, which was even more confusing. If Sam was in such a rush why not just get breakfast to go? He had been the one that insisted on going to the damn diner anyway.

Sam eventually had given in and helped Dean get dressed, his hands careful not to touch Dean’s skin and hesitant. It was such a shift from last night, they had fallen asleep holding hands, for fucks’ sake. But maybe that was it; the curtains of late nights and closed doors were drawn. Brothers don’t hold hands. Brothers got stares if they sat or stood too close because leaning in more than necessary so your words touch only their ears…Brothers just don’t.

Dean glanced at Sam. Sam noticed, Dean could tell from the way his shoulders tensed and his head twitched like it was fighting the urge to meet Dean’s gaze. Dean gave him a reprieve by nonchalantly turning to look out the window, he didn’t have to see him to know the tension leaked out his body the moment Dean looked away.

It all made sense now. Their curt words and nonexistent touches, Sam driving silently with both hands like if he let his right arm get too close to Dean, he’d be set ablaze. Sam had figured it out. Dean thought he should be surprised but he wasn’t, far from it actually. He never really tried to hide it, some minuscule part of him hoping that Sam would figure it out so Dean wouldn’t actually have to say the words. Sam would though –the matter of when was the question– and Dean wouldn’t deny it. Maybe a few years ago he would have but Dean had gotten over the shame a long time ago and there really wouldn’t be a point. Sam was smart and knew it and never let anyone get away with questioning his intelligence or judgment, least of all Dean. Dean smiled to himself. He probably had pie charts and extrapolated data to prove what he already knew.

Dean was in love with him.

****

Dean hadn’t even felt himself fall asleep until Sam had turned the car onto a graveling road, barely visible from the highway. Dean furrowed his brows and squinted. They were surrounded by almost nothing but trees, nothing like what usually surrounds the hospitals and doctors’ offices they had frequented. Maybe this was a shortcut?

Dean cut a glance at Sam, looking for the tell-tale look Sam had when he was lost. Dean couldn’t find it. Eventually, the trees thinned out to a clearing and the dirt gradually shifted to gravel, leading them to the pavement of a makeshift parking lot. There were dozens of cars and even more people getting out of them and making their way somewhere that Dean couldn’t quite see; all of them passing by the small white church building to the left of them. Dean couldn’t help but notice that everyone was either visibly sick or was with someone who was. A lame leg here, oxygen tank there. Hacking coughs and groans of pain that Dean could hear through the car. Dean didn’t let himself think about the people who looked even worse off than him. It was depressing.

Dean hated how long it took him to realize they weren’t going to a doctor. That lying son of a bitch, Dean wanted to maim him. What was this place?

Sam parked and was opening Dean’s door in a matter of seconds. He tried helping him out of the car, but Dean waved him off. “I got it. You’re such a lying bastard. I thought you said we were going to see a doctor.”

Sam didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed or even sheepish. Dean wanted to smack him. “I believe I said a specialist. Look, Dean, this guy is supposed to be the real deal.”

Dean was beyond pissed. Of all the stupid things to do…The only reason Dean was even following Sam was that maybe the place they were going was warm. Dean had on a long-sleeved shirt under Sam’s hoodie and a coat and still felt he couldn’t escape the stiff breeze. As they got closer, Dean saw that the mob of people wasn’t heading towards another building but a tent. A tent. “I can’t believe you brought me to see some guy who heals people out of a tent.” Dean whisper-shouted.

Some woman going in the opposite direction overheard and gave him a look. “Reverend La Grange is a great man.”

Dean fought not to roll his eyes. La Grange? God, even his name sounded fake. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

Sam looked like he was gonna scold him when a man in a suit started to raise his voice at some poor cop trying to remove him. “I have a right to protest; this man is a fraud! He’s bilking all these people out of their hard-earned money!”

Dean balked. These people were paying? Were they paying? How much? He thought about asking Sam. But knew that Sam was either going to lie or flat-out just not answer him. Probably try to feed Dean some bullshit line about how no amount of money was worth not having him, completely missing Dean’s point. “I take it he’s not part of the flock,” Dean muttered.

Sam looked unfazed. “Well, when people see something they can’t explain, there’s controversy.”

Dean groaned. Sam was seriously sounding like he had been indoctrinated. Is that what was happening? This was a cult, wasn’t it? Some Jonestown shit. Fat chance, Dean didn’t even like Kool-Aid. “Yeah, but come on, Sam, a faith healer?”

“Maybe it’s time to have little faith, Dean,” Sam answered, looking at Dean hopefully, completely unmatching Dean’s energy and it was driving him crazy. It made Dean feel like he was overreacting, and he wasn’t. Faith healer. Witchdoctor. Hippie with some crystals and kush. It didn’t really matter what form it came in. It wasn’t based on facts, things that could be seen or touched. Facts had the chance to fuck them over on a bad day so anything else was beyond dangerous. Maybe not physically but this shit not working was going to crush Sam. “You know what I got faith in? Reality. Knowing what’s really going on.”

Sam laughed at him, pulling Dean up short. It sounded nice. Real. “How can you be a skeptic? With the things we see every day?”

“Exactly. We see them. We know they’re real.” Dean had lost count of how many things had tried to kill him, hell, he even forgot some of their names, but they were real, alright. Santa Claus, Tooth Fairy, angels…those were going to be a crock of shit until he saw one with his own damn eyes.

“If you know evil’s out there, how can you not believe good’s out there, too?”

“Because I’ve seen what evil does to good people.” Dean snapped. At least he saw what it did to Dad. Sometimes Dean caught himself feeling sorry for his brother. Sam was too young to remember Mom and therefore only knew the shell of a man her death left behind. Didn’t know anything about a Dad that never barked orders or a Mom who cut the crust off his PB & J just right. Evil ruined his family. Evil only lost in the movies. In the real world, Evil was a plague, siphoning the good out of people and leaving sad, broken husks behind.

“Maybe God works in mysterious ways.” A voice said.

Maybe God exists and I’m a purple baboon with a foot fetish, Dean wanted to say. Maybe it was bullshit. Dean took the woman in. She was petite and blonde and had a nice smile. If Dean had seen her anywhere but here, he would have been all over her, flirting with her until she couldn’t stop blushing. But Sam was right there and…Nothing. Dean was pissed and Sam didn’t even want to touch him anymore. Dean slipped on a mask. His go-to. Cheeky debonair. “Maybe he does. I think you just turned me around on the subject.”

Her smile grew even wider and tilted, just this side of a knowing smirk. “Yeah, I’m sure.” Dean didn’t know how he knew but Dean was willing to bet the Impala that she was sick.

“I’m Dean, this is Sam.”

“Layla.” She said, twirling her umbrella. “So if you’re not a believer, then why are you here?”

Wasn’t that the question of the day? “Apparently, my brother believes enough for the both of us.”

Just then another woman joined Layla at her side, she was older and from the way her arms shrouded her lovingly it wouldn’t have been wrong to guess she was her mother. With a gentle smile and a small wave, she left.

Before the split second of sad awkwardness got to be too much, Dean nudged Sam, before heading inside. “I bet she can work in some mysterious ways.” Dean took Sam’s smile as a victory.

The moment Dean stepped into most places, he looked for exits, potential threats, eyes watching just a bit too close. It wasn’t necessarily a good or bad habit but one that had saved his life on more than one occasion. A paranoid person was like a broken clock. Dean looked around and saw more sick people and their loved ones and it just filled him with dread. He didn’t look nearly as sick as some of them and the people who looked like nothing was wrong with them but had their companions worried, scared Dean the most. Since they were in a tent there was only one way in or out which comforted Dean as much as it bothered him. Dean caught a glimpse of a conspicuously placed security camera and snorted. “Yeah, peace, love, and trust all over.” He muttered.

Sam cast a glance at it but was back to looking for a place to sit, once again unfazed. Dean wondered what it would take for Sam to hightail them out of there. A psycho with a gun? Rabid dog? Dean briefly thought about pretending to pass out but that would probably only get him more attention, a greater chance to be healed, though so Sam might be ecstatic.

Dean was thankful that there two seats right at the back, closest to the opening of the tent. He started to sit when Sam stopped him. It was so simple a hand to his back, another on his arm and it was all Dean could feel. “What are you doing? Let’s sit here.”

Sam shook his head. “We’re sitting up front.”

Dean started. Aside from the fact that sitting up front was the last thing he wanted to do, Sam said it like it barred no argument like he didn’t care what Dean wanted. That pissed Dean off even more. “What? Why?”

Sam was already guiding, pushing Dean towards the front. “This is ridiculous.” Dean felt Sam’s grip tighten like he thought Dean was going to run away. Dean couldn’t say it hadn’t crossed his mind. But funny how it was suddenly okay for Sam to touch him when he wanted something. Fuck that. Sam asked if he was alright and Dean literally had to bite his tongue not to tell him to fuck off, settling instead for a grunt. Sam didn’t really want an answer. He just felt like it was something he should say. If Sam really cared what Dean wanted, they wouldn’t even be here. So Dean didn’t feel bad when pushed Sam’s hands away and snapped at him to get off.

Sam obeyed instantly, just as they came upon another pair of seats, much closer to the front and right behind Layla and her mom. Great. Just great. Sam tried to help him sit, seemingly unable to just leave Dean be. The moment they sat down the piano music that was playing quieted and the reverend stepped up to the podium. Dean didn’t think he looked like much, but then again neither did Manson or Jim Jones. He was a stout man with receding silver hair and wore a pair of small black sunglasses. Dean wondered if he was actually blind or if it was part of the gimmick. When he spoke, it was with an accent almost southern which Dean thought was interesting considering they were in Nebraska. An older woman sat quietly behind him looking at him reverently, his wife.

“Every morning my wife Sue Ann reads me the news. Never seems good, does it?” The crowd murmured collective noes as if prompted. It was creepy, how everyone just seemed on the same page and Dean didn’t even know the name of the book. Stupid analogy. Of course, he knew what book. “Seems like there’s always someone, committing some immoral, unspeakable act. But I say to you God is watching. God rewards the good and punishes the corrupt.”

The flock was egging him now on with affirmative noises and words like they really believed what he was saying. Which didn’t surprise Dean in the slightest, the type of people who sopped up bullshit like this were the same ones ready to believe in miracles. If God really rewarded the good and punished the corrupt, then why was Mom dead? Why was he dying? Not that Dean thought he was good –not bad either, just in the middle– but Sam was the one that was gonna be punished by his death.

“It is the Lord who does the healing here, friends. The Lord who guides me in choosing who to heal by helping me see into people’s hearts.”

Dean snorted. More like into their wallets, he thought. Dean looked up when he heard someone snort. Dean turned when the man stood. Boy, actually. He was young, maybe fifteen and his eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed like he’d been crying. “You are a liar. All you do is take advantage of people.”

Reverend La Grange chuckled nervously. “Now, son, I know you’re–.”

“My mom came here for two weeks before she died, used the last of her money and you couldn’t help her!” He stepped into the aisle, turning to the crowd. “Don’t do this. Don’t do what my mom did. Save your money, spend it on medicine.” The boy started crying again and wiped furiously at her eyes. His voice came out quieter, thick with the sobs he was trying desperately to tamp down. “My mom was so obsessed with finding a cure, getting better, she forgot to live, she forgot about me.” Dean expected the kid to leave but instead, he just sat back down, defeated. “And now she’s gone.”

The crowd was silent now; some of them looking back at the reverend, hopeful that he was going to tell them this wasn’t true. Sue Ann got up and whispered something to him, he nodded and let her guide him off the stage. Some people got up, calling out in outrage for their money back and others so desperate, still begging for the charlatan to try.

Dean felt his stomach lurch. “Sam…”

Sam was up before Dean could say anymore. “Let’s go.”

****

Sam was thankful the moment he got them back on the highway, no longer needing to be careful not to hit another car or a tree. Sam was pushing the gas to the floor the second the Impala’s tires hit the interstate. He dared Dean to tell him to slow down, ready to ignore him and go even faster. What was he going to do? Take the wheel and risk jerking them into oncoming traffic or a ditch? Not likely.

Sam wanted to hit something. Hard. Until his knuckles bled and his fingers broke. He itched for his phone to call Joshua and tell him to go fuck himself, leave a threatening voice mail if he had to. All that time he wasted…It didn’t matter. He still had his research, three days’ worth. The faith healer wasn’t his most promising lead. It couldn’t have been. Sam tried to think about what he had before Joshua had called him back. Everything non-supernatural cost money and/or time they didn’t have. Heart transplant waitlists took months. Anything their fake insurance wouldn’t cover would have to be paid out of pocket. There was still everything else. He could make a deal. Demons always wanted a new soul to corrupt. Dean would kill him, but Sam was so far from caring it was laughable.

What he knew about demon deals, especially ones for a person’s life was rudimentary at best. He needed to research, but not everything could be found on the internet and only a meager amount of Dad’s contacts had actually gotten back to him.

Fuck. He needed to think, he needed to regroup, he needed something, for once, to just–

“Sam.” Dean’s panic slashed through his musing like a lance, but Sam didn’t even bother to risk more than a glance.

“What?”

“What?” Dean echoed. “You’re pushing a hundred in broad daylight and talking to yourself.” Sam heard Dean sigh. “Look, just pull over for a second.”

No. Pulling over wasn’t going to solve anything. But Sam’s eyes couldn’t help but flick to the shoulder, catching a fleeting sign. Lodging in six miles. Perfect. He’d have somewhere to lay out his research. Sam didn’t say anything, no longer trusting himself not to say anything else. Part of him worried about what he said and how much Dean had heard. He guessed nothing about demons and deals because Dean didn’t look pissed.

Sam took the exit and was paying for their room in a matter of minutes, ignoring Dean and whatever he was saying. He was half-listening; ears perked for any danger or help but it was all just word jumble. His name scattered in between words like wait, hold on, and would you just. Sam thought about helping Dean to their room, but it was evident Dean wasn’t planning on getting out anytime soon. He locked the door as soon as Sam tried to open it.

Fine. Dean could throw all the fits he wanted; it wasn’t like he was going to help Sam anyway, especially not if he knew where Sam’s head was at. Sam tossed their bags on the bed and started laying out every single piece of research he had. There had to be something. Maybe there was a library or bookstore nearby that had some legitimate books on the supernatural.

Sam didn’t know how long it had been before Dean eventually came in the room. The sun was still up but that didn’t mean much and Sam hadn’t bothered looking at his watch to know when they’d arrived. He looked up for just a second when Dean came to the table. He hadn’t found anything so there wasn’t anything to say. Dean picked up an article that he had set aside a few minutes hours? ago. It was from a medical journal and he practically had the thing memorized. He had moved onto the laptop a while ago and had found a couple of bookshops that looked promising. Sam glanced at his watch, barely four o’clock. He had time to hit them up if he left soon.

Sam heard the tell-tale sound of something ripping and looked up to see Dean had torn through all of his printouts and was moving on to his notes. Sam shot up out of his seat, the chair rocked to the floor with a loud clang.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was somewhere just under a shout.

Dean ignored him until Sam moved to snatch his notes back. Dean easily dodged him and ripped all the papers from the pad, scattering them across the floor. “What does it look like?”

“Dean, stop it.” Sam stepped around the table, there were a couple of notepads left and Dean already had them in hand. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being ridiculous?” Dean made quick work of the notes, even going as far as to rip them more than twice.

Sam forced himself to calm down. “Yes, you are. What are you, five? Throwing a fucking tantrum.”

With nothing else to tear, Dean finally looked at Sam. “You want to see a tantrum, Sam?” Dean nodded to himself. “I’ll show you a tantrum.” Dean came upon Sam like he was ready to hit him but instead reached behind him. “I heard you in the car. You thinking about making a deal?” Sam froze. Dean’s grip was white-knuckled on Sam’s laptop like he could crush it with his own hands and sheer force of will. Sam said nothing. “Yeah,” Dean muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

“Please, Dean. It was just…just a thought.” Sam was shocked at how easy it was for him to lie so convincingly. He almost believed it himself. “Dean, don’t.”

But it was too late. Dean had the laptop open and forcing it to fold back until it snapped. He threw it on the floor screen up and smashed the heel of his boot into the glass.

Sam could remember once, maybe twice when he was so angry he actually saw red. At fifteen, a gas station attendant who had said his brother was pretty enough to make money off that mouth of his –he still never felt anything as satisfying as the crunch of the man’s nose– and the night he left for Stanford. Never at Dean. Not like this. Sam saw himself grab Dean by his shirt and shove him into the wall. He tried not to think about how easy it was, easier than it should be. “What the hell is your problem? I am trying to save you!” Sam knew if he kept this up his voice was going to be hoarse for days.

Dean wrenched himself out of Sam’s grip. “The fuck you are. You’re trying to keep me alive. You don’t even care how you do it. You may not see it, Sam, but you’re losing it. I mean, faith healers? Talking to yourself? You almost got us hit on the highway twice.”

Sam laughed. Couldn’t help it. It bubbled out of him, genuinely shocked at the sheer gall his brother had. “Like you would be so different. You’re such a hypocrite.” Sam shoved at Dean again, his body making a solid thud against the wall.

“Maybe so but I’ll tell you this much, I wouldn’t be dragging your ass cross country on some wild goose chase looking for magical cures. I would maybe, just maybe, find some time in my busy schedule to ask if you’re alright.”

That pulled Sam up short. “What?”

“Not once, Sam. Not one ‘how do you feel?’ or ‘how you doing?’ since I got hurt. It was like you went from Dean’s hurt to keep Dean from dying, skipping all the important shit in the middle.” Dean took a deep breath; his voice came out calmer but not any less wrought. “I’m dying, Sam. That’s how I feel. I am tired all the time. I can’t get warm. It was sixty-five degrees today and you didn’t even question the fact that I was in layers. Coffee makes me break out in a cold sweat now so that’s gone. You didn’t even notice I got water with my breakfast. Maybe…maybe I could take you going all out for me but you’re not you.”

“Of course, I’m not me,” Sam didn’t recognize his own voice. It wasn’t a shout anymore but a mangled cry. “How can I be? I’m watching my brother die. I’m watching you give up–.”

“Give up?” Dean was yelling again now, getting right up in Sam’s face. “You ungrateful, little–. I am not giving up. You don’t think I wanna stay? I would give anything to stay, anything but you. How backward is that? Let the one reason to stay give up his soul for what, ten years, five? Then what? It’s a lose-lose and the sooner you accept it–.”

“What? What’s gonna happen when I accept it, Dean?” Sam wasn’t even angry anymore. He wanted Dean to tell him. Give him some answers as to how he was supposed to get through this.

Dean groaned. “I don’t know! Something better than this. Better than you pulling away and treating me like glass. You’re so worried about saving me that you aren’t even thinking about how I’m living right now. What if you don’t find anything, Sammy? The doctor gave me a month, but I could go tomorrow and what have we done?”

Dean’s words hit Sam like a fist to the gut, all the air in his body punched right out of him. His vision blurred and his legs buckled, his knees catching the brunt of his fall. Dean was right. He was so right, and it fucking hurt. He was going to distract himself by grasping at straws until one morning he woke up and Dean didn’t. The thought made him groan. He was crying now, no tears yet but he felt his sobs chambering in his chest like lead bullets. It was the shittiest catch-22, either do all he could to save Dean or cherish the time he had left with him. He couldn’t have both.

Dean followed him to the floor, pulling away his hands cradling his face, replacing them with his own. His hands actually warm as his thumbs brushed away Sam’s tears. “Look, Sammy, I’m not gonna lie; I don’t…I got the easy part but you…you have to live, Sam. Just promise me that you’re not gonna follow me, okay? Promise.”

Sam nodded.

“Say it, Sam.”

“I-I won’t. I won’t follow you,” Dean started to get up when Sam grabbed at his arm. “Was it true?” Sam didn’t even know why he was asking. No answer was going to be the right one. Would it really be better to know? A yes meant that it was going to hurt that much more when Dean was gone. A no meant that it was going to hurt like a bitch now. But neither of those matched the ache of not knowing.

“Was what true?” Dean was speaking softer than Sam even knew he was capable of.

“I’m the only reason you have to stay?”

Dean huffed. “Well, it sure as hell ain’t the car.”

****

Dean was wiped. He took some solace in the fact that he probably would have been just as wiped sick or not. He was always wiped after a fight with Sam. Emotions and adrenaline running high only to crash and leave him numb. Neither bothered to clean up the mess Dean had made. In hindsight, Dean might have gone too far but he had been so sick of Sam ignoring him.

He’d caught only a few words of Sam’s rambling in the car and his blood ran cold when heard the word deal. Dean may let a lot of things slide, cut corners more than he should but letting Sam make a deal for him? That was a non-starter not just because demons lie or that it really boiled down to Sam trading his life for Dean. No, it was that they would just be switching places, prolonging the inevitable. Sam giving up his soul so he could have a few more years with Dean, leaving Dean alone in the world rather than Sam. It was stupid and selfish, and it made Dean want to hit him. He settled for tearing his shit up, not bothering with talking since Sam had been blind and deaf to everything but his godforsaken research.

The fight was agony but needed, closer to being on the same page than before. Dean had let Sam cry himself out, leaning up against the bed when his back was crying for a reprieve. Sam followed, his head settling on Dean’s shoulder until both their stomachs growled. Dean ordered pizza and wings while Sam showered, much longer than the one he took this morning. If everything still wasn’t so fucked up, so off-kilter, Dean would have teased him about the things that men do in the shower.

The pizza came just as Sam was drying off and dressing for bed. They were back to not talking but it was okay because it felt different. Dean had gotten some drinks from the vending machine and they sat at the table, ready to dig in. Dean was plating two slices when he noticed that Sam hadn’t touched any of the food. He just looked at Sam, waiting for him to say what was clearly on his mind and hoping it didn’t end up in another fight.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, he was looking up at Dean through his damp bangs the way he had when he was eight and was really sorry, so sorry he couldn’t even look at his disappointed big brother. “I just…I heard the doctor say a month and I just shut down. Everything just whited out except for getting you better.” Sam sighed; his hands splayed out on the table before clenching into fists. “You were right. That’s not me, that’s not us.” Sam looked like he was going to cry again but he shook his head and sat up, looking at Dean. “Just, you’ll tell me, right? If you don’t feel okay?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, Sammy, of course.” Dean let his fingertips brush against Sam’s knuckles, not expecting Sam to open his hand and take Dean’s in his.

“Good.” Sam squeezed once before letting go.

They got back to the food, once again another comfortable silence taking over. Dean watched Sam for a few minutes just to make sure that he was actually chewing and swallowing because right now only one of them was allowed to look haggard. Dean thought about what tableau they made; Sam’s tall, lanky body gradually losing the tan he’d got in California and showing it off in nothing but a pair of Stanford sweats, Dean’s much paler and more scarred covered up in Sam’s hoodie, sweats and a pair of his thickest socks. They were both in the same position; legs stretched out in front of them, an elbow rested on the table. Different, yet so similar. 

Sam had turned to the TV, the occasional soft huff of laughter escaping at the Seinfeld marathon. Dean felt the sudden urge to keep Sam’s better mood going. Sam was going to go to bed laughing if Dean had to tap dance naked.

“Hey, Sammy.” Sam turned to Dean, curiosity in his raised brow. “Wanna play Truth or Drink?”

Sam leveled him a bitchface. “You can’t drink, Dean.”

Dean shrugged. True. Alcohol was apparently bad for you _period_ and especially not for someone with a dying heart. “I was actually going to say truth or dare but I thought you’d chicken out.”

Sam’s face lightened to annoyed apprehension. “Not chicken out, I just know you’d dare me to wash your car.”

Dean laughed. It had definitely crossed his mind. “Fine. Truth or dare but only dares that can be done sitting down.”

Sam pushed his plate away and finished off his root beer. “Alright.”

Dean got up and went over to the pants Sam had worn that day, fishing a quarter out of the front pocket. He flipped it in the air asking Sam to call it before it came back down. Heads. Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s cheeky grin. “Truth or dare, Sammy?”

Sam watched Dean sit back down, his lips pursing deep in thought. “Truth.”

Dean faked a put-upon look. “What, you don’t trust me?”

Sam snorted, “Not with this.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Alright, we’ll start off easy. Biggest pet peeve.”

“Hypocrites,” Sam said, cracking open a second root beer. “Truth or dare?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Dare.”

Sam looked around the room, “I dare you to sing your favorite song.”

“I don’t sing.”

“Bullshit.” Sam countered.

Dean huffed, finding he had to actually think what his favorite song was. It changed depending on his mood and whatever he had last listened to. The only song he could think of was the last song he remembered hearing. It had been playing on the jukebox in the diner they had eaten breakfast that morning. There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun. And it’s been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God, I know I’m one… Dean closed his eyes as he sang as much as he could remember. His voice cracked as he tried to hit the high notes but when he was done, Sam was looking at him with a small smile, not a hint of laughter. Dean cleared his throat and took a sip of water. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” Sam answered without the slightest hesitation.

“You’re never gonna pick dare, are you?” Dean teased. He had a couple of particularly humiliating ones in mind but what fun was it if Sam wasn’t gonna bite?

Sam didn’t bother to look ashamed. “Maybe when I think you’ll ask something worth doing.”

Dean didn’t really get what his brother meant so he thought up a question instead of replying. He didn’t really know how to explain it, but he felt like Sam was cheating. Picking truth because he thought it was safe? Dean smirked. “What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever jacked off to?”

Dean expected Sam to wince or blush or even see one of his eyes twitch, but there was nothing. Sam just swallowed his sip of root beer and focused on the space behind Dean. “Define dirty.”

Dean started. Definitely was not expecting that. “Something that made you feel like a freak once the afterglow wore off.” This ought to be good.

Sam was quiet for a long moment. “You.”

Dean dug his nails into his hand hard to keep his body still. One wrong move and this was going off the rails. He knew it. He knew Sam knew. But what Dean didn’t know until about fifteen seconds ago was how exactly Sam felt about it. What the actual fuck was he supposed to do now? Sam just told him that he had jacked off to him. Dean yearned to smother the part of him that wanted to know exactly what Sam was thinking about when he came. What a sadistic fuck. What good would it be to know? Yeah, Sam thought about him, and wasn’t that just great? Because according to Dean's own damn definition, Sam felt like a freak once he came. Which was right and so fucking wrong at the same time.

Sam’s voice cut through his thoughts like ice water. “Truth or dare?” Sam was focusing on his legs as he uncrossed them, only cross them right back, right ankle over left.

Dean had planned on choosing Truth on his second turn, but he wasn’t about to let Sam ask him what he thought. Not until he had put some fucking coherence to his thoughts. “Dare.”

A look skated across Sam’s face once again too quick for Dean to catch. “Drink the rest of your water, Dean.”

Dean did it without question. His throat had been all types of dry. Definitely wasn’t about to complain either considering that as far as a dare that was getting off easy. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” There was something different in the way he said it though. Like he was daring Dean to do his worst. Which any other time Dean would wholeheartedly do but Sam was messing with his head and it was leaving him off balance like he’d had a couple of shots under his belt, a bit tipsy. Dean was by no means a lightweight, could hit a target wasted and left-handed if he really needed to, but that didn’t mean he made the best decisions while drunk either. He had a couple of scars for saying the wrong thing to the wrong guy after a few. Dean figured he wouldn’t mind adding another to the mix.

“How many times?” Dean asked, hoping that Sam wouldn’t make him elaborate.

Sam scoffed. “Not every time so let’s ballpark and say seventy-five percent.”

Dean didn’t know how Sam could be so nonchalant about this. Dean had had what, ten years to get used to this and was fine with it, at least he thought he was until Sam started to make it his mission to confuse the fuck out of him. Seventy-five percent of the time Sam jacked off he felt like a freak, no wonder he was such a prude.

“Truth or dare?” Sam rubbed his forehead like he was getting a headache.

“Dare,” Dean said. He still felt like he couldn’t think straight. He was desperate for Sam to give some stupid task that would let his mind go numb for at least until his next turn. Maybe Sam would ask him to call Dad or something else just as cruel. Fuck. Dad. That was definitely a conversation for not anytime the fuck soon.

“I dare you to kiss me.”

Dean for the first time in four days felt hot all over, which was nice but holy fuck. What the fuck? What the actual fuck? Dean didn’t have a plan, but holy shit was this not a part of the plan. What if he said no? They never even bothered to come up with any rule in case someone was chicken shit. And Dean was chicken shit. When it came to this Dean was so chicken shit, ready to run with his tail between his legs at a moment’s notice.

“Can’t.” His voice was hoarse. “We agreed dares had to be done sitting down.” Don’t get up, Sammy. Please for the love of God, Sam, do not get up.

Sam got up. He kept his eyes on Dean’s as he made his way over and leaned down, his face an inch away from Dean’s. He didn’t move. Of course, he didn’t, wouldn’t. It was Dean’s dare. Sam had dared Dean to kiss him which meant Dean was the one who had to make the move. Dean honestly considered not fucking doing it because wow if this wasn’t going to throw a wrench in…everything. But that small reckless part of him that he was born with, that had only grown in the past four days, the part of him that made him shoot first and ask questions later said why not. And Dean, unable to come up with an answer, let alone a good one, closed that space between them.

He met Sam’s mouth quick and quiet, a mere brushing of their lips, nothing more than PG. It was Sam that pulled him in, hands on Dean’s face, holding him as he deepened the kiss. He nudged Dean’s mouth open even more and Dean shivered when their tongues met. He still felt warm though, warmer now that Sam was so fucking close, so close he couldn’t see him. Dean felt Sam moving away and felt himself lunge forward, it was his hands framing Sam’s face now, holding him still until he got his fill. It was a newfound sense of urgency because Sam was the one that asked for this. Sam was the one that was…crying?

Dean opened his eyes when he felt the wetness on his cheeks. “Sammy?”

Sam stepped back, letting out a small hysterical laugh. “Sorry.”

“No, Sam, fuck. I’m sorry.” Dean ran a hand through his hair and pulled. It hurt and he deserved it because Sam was crying and there was no one else to blame but himself.

Sam turned his back to Dean and wiped at his face. “I just can’t do this. I thought I could but…”

“I get it.” Dean was up in a second because he was not about to let Sam bear this thing alone. “I mean, I’ve had like a decade to get used to this so if you need some time…” Dean stopped because Sam was looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

Sam shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“This. Us. I mean, I could tell you figured it out. That’s why you’ve been acting weird. I kinda wanna know what it was that tipped you off. I’d say I was pretty good at hiding it.”

Sam busted out laughing, a raucous bout that was tinged with anger and sadness. “We really need to talk more,” Sam said letting his laugh die off. “Dean, I’ve been jerking off to you since I was twelve. I’ve known you felt the same since I was sixteen and I heard you say my name in the shower. But you never said anything, so I never said anything. It wasn’t like we could just be together especially not when Dad kicked me out.” They both winced. “Dean, I can’t do this because it’s too much. You’re dying and it would be cruel if we started this because we can’t fucking finish it, can barely get started. Losing a brother is enough, and now you’re asking me to lose…” Sam couldn’t come up with a word fast enough.

“Lose what?”

Dean jumped when Sam swiped at the lamp sitting on the bedside table. It hit the floor and it broke into two big chunks. There went their deposit. “Everything!” Sam yelled as he whipped around. “I mean, God, Dean, don’t you get it? You’re everything to me. It’s you. It’s always been you. You were my best friend, my hero. I wanted to grow up and be just like you. Then we wanted…more but we were too scared to do anything about it.” Dean tried not to think about how Sam was talking about him in the past tense now. “And now all that time is gone. Wasted.”

“So what’re you’re saying is that if we did this, you’d miss me more when I’m gone.” Dean had to say the words out loud because it wasn’t making any fucking sense to him. That was Sam’s problem? Their timing was off? If they started this a week ago then everything would be fine? Jesus. What the fuck would it have mattered? Dean would still be dying and the shit was still going to hurt like a motherfucker.

Sam shook his head, eyes shut. “You can’t miss what you haven’t had.”

“What about what I want?” It was going to be up to Sam, always was but Dean promised himself that he was going to speak his mind no matter the consequences. It sounded so selfish to ask but Dean couldn’t help it. What about his dying wishes? What about all the things he wanted to do before he died? He didn’t want to go skydiving or be in two places at once like other people. He wanted Sam and it didn’t seem fair that it was becoming less of a possibility when Sam was standing right there, alive and wanting.

Sam gave him a withering look, filled to the brim with mocking anger that chilled Dean to the core. “You’re dying proof that what we want doesn’t matter.”

****

Sam threw on a shirt and a pair of shoes before stalking out the door. Any other time he knew that both he and Dean would have laughed and made some stupid jokes about dramatic exits. Not likely. Sam shut his eyes, trying to forget the look on Dean’s face. He had looked crushed, gutted and Sam wanted to vomit at the fact that he was the reason for it.

Sam didn’t even think it could be possible to be a selfish martyr but lo and behold he’d somehow managed. He was convinced that crossing that line with Dean was going to ruin them both. Sam didn’t care so much about himself. Sure, he’d said the opposite with the hopes that Dean was going to drop it and not come back with that soul-crushing question. What about what I want? Yeah, what about what you want, Dean? What about what I want? They could what about all day until the dogs came home and they were blue in the fucking face. It didn’t matter. No one cared about what they wanted anymore so why should they?

God, he was starting to sound like Dad. It should be so easy, just live out each day, moment to its fullest. Do anything and everything they had ever wanted to do so when the time came, they’d both have no regrets. But Sam just couldn’t. Couldn’t shut out the voice in the back of his said whispering Is this the last time? Couldn’t beg Dean to change the channel or eat a vegetable for once, couldn’t kiss Dean without thinking it might be their last. Every moment no matter how good or how great had a storm cloud over it and neither of them knew when it was going to pour.

But that was life, wasn’t it? Any day could be their last. Hunting definitely made sure of that. The only difference being that they knew. But only so much. They had a vague timeline, maybe a month, that was a blessing and a curse. A sick thought crossed Sam’s mind drenched in desperation. Maybe it would have just been easier if Dean had died that night, quick and dirty, no time to hem and haw over trying to fix anything. Like ripping off a band-aid.

Damn Dean and his stupid games and fucking questions. Sam was ready to try and get used to the idea of giving up on a fix and Dean went and started up a game probably made up by horny teenagers and had Sam pouring his heart out over bad takeout. It was galling. Infuriating even, but Sam was just as much to blame. No one made him choose truth, no one made him dare Dean to kiss him. But when Dean didn’t say no, didn’t call him a freak when he found out about Sam and his dirty little secret…Why didn’t Dean just say no? Why didn’t Sam have some fucking semblance of self-control?

Sam stopped and looked around to see where he was. The back of the motel from the looks of it, by the dumpsters and the sparse woods that framed the property. Their car was nothing but a few paces away and Sam felt the weight of the keys in his pocket. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t going to be able to have more than twenty feet between them with Dean like this. Not when any second…

Sam picked up an abandoned pole, it looked like it had been part of a table once and began to hit the dumpster. He didn’t even think about it, his body needing a release that tears and screams just wouldn’t do. The first satisfying thrum of the metal against metal only made him want to do it again and again, until the leg bent, and the dumpster dented until it didn’t sound the same until he didn’t feel like he was suffocating anymore.

“Did that help?”

Sam jumped out of his skin before he recognized the voice. “Jesus Christ, Dean.”

“Well, did it?” Dean had his coat on but hadn’t bothered with shoes. Sam briefly thought about warning him about cutting his foot; tetanus was one thing they really didn’t fucking need right now.

Sam narrowed his eyes wondering which answer was going to cut the deepest since Dean would hear the truth in both. “No.” He whipped the piece of the trash into the dumpster and the clang reverberated across the parking lot. It gave him something to do, an excuse not to look at Dean anymore.

“Good thing we’re the only people checked in. You would have scared the neighbors.”

Sam shook his head. He was so far from in the mood. “Dean…” He warned.

“What? No one can make jokes now because Sammy wants to stay all doom and gloom?”

Sam rolled his eyes. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to take a drive. Though Dean would probably get in the car anyway with some bullshit about making sure Sam didn’t crash. “Whatever, Dean.”

“You know what your problem is, Sam?” Dean was already speaking over him.

Please tell me, Sam thought. Please for the love of God tell me what it is, Dean, so I can try to fix one thing in this fucking atrocity of a situation. Sam opted for silence instead.

“I’m already dead to you.”

“What?” Sam turned around but Dean was already walking away. He managed to make it back to their room before Sam could find it in him to follow. Dean tried to close the door in his face, but Sam caught it just before it shut. “That is not true.” Sam grabbed at Dean’s arm forcing Dean to face him.

Dean cocked his head, fixing Sam with a look too raw and open. “Isn’t it?” Dean wrenched out of Sam’s grip and put a foot of distance between them. Sam fought not to close it. “You keep making decisions for me, for us. Telling me what we can and can’t do because I’m dying. Like it doesn’t matter what I want. ‘Dean doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he’s a man with nothing to lose.’ Is that what you think?”

Dean was shouting now, and Sam’s eyes couldn’t help but cast towards the wall they shared before remembering that they were the only guests. “Well, fuck you, Sam. Fuck you if you think this shit is one-sided. You think you’re the only one that’s scared? The only one who’s losing the one person that matters? News fucking flash, Sammy, call the presses because you’re not.”

Dean huffed and Sam let him catch his breath because he clearly wasn’t done. “You’re so selfish.” Dean spat the word out like poison and Sam took it like a slap to the face. “You won’t let this happen, not because you think it’s disgusting or someone might find out or even some other wrong right reason, but because you don’t want to deal with the pain.”

“And you do?” Sam countered.

“Yeah, Sam, I do. This has always been painful.” Dean gestured between them, they were just close enough that his fingers brushed against Sam’s chest. “It wouldn’t be us if it wasn’t.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to hurt anymore.” Not because of me, not for me, Sam left unsaid.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded like Sam was reading off a script, expecting every word. “Well, you don’t get to decide for me, Sam. Not anymore. This is what I want and if you can’t or won’t…you should go.”

Sam went cold. “What?”

“You heard me. We can’t put the genie back in the bottle. I could take it if you didn’t want me.” Dean laughed at himself and it sounded like mourning. “Well, maybe not but I would manage. But having you here, knowing that you feel the same and just won’t.” Dean shook his head. “That’s not pain, Sam. It’s…cruel.”

For the second time tonight, Dean was right. It was also the second time tonight that Sam kissed him. It was nothing like their first, this one was frantic and breathy and more teeth and tongue than anything. Sam was in Dean’s space, crowding him like he was the one who might have been ready to run. Or maybe it was Sam just holding on for life.

He numbed his brain and body to everything but Dean. It was easier that way. Dean’s noises and cold hands under his shirt. Sam shuffled out of his coat and shirt and toed off his shoes and helped Dean do the same. Sam couldn’t help but notice the goosebumps that sprouted on Dean’s skin. _ I can’t get warm._ Sam shook his head and had his hands under Dean’s thighs, lifting him into his arms. The more skin that touched, the better. Sam buried his face in Dean’s neck, feeling his pulse against his cheek. He could listen to it for days.

“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean had his hands in Sam’s hair and Sam desperately wanted him to pull it. This part of them was so different but so similar that Sam wanted to weep with joy when Dean’s grip tightened and tugged. They hadn’t lost it. A part of Sam was worried that maybe if they took this step then it would ruin the perfect synergy they had, worrying more about being lovers rather than brothers and everything would fall apart. Instead, it just heightened. A brotherhood, a love taken to its limits.

Sam felt his arms twinge.

Dean wasn’t heavy but Sam wasn’t as strong as he used to be. Stanford made him soft. Sam laid Dean out on the closest bed, pushing their duffels to the floor. He pulled away, meeting Dean’s eyes, watching his chest heave. Good. Sam stepped out of his sweats, waiting for the small blink-and-you’ll-miss-it nod that Dean gave him, before taking off Dean’s. He did it quickly, needing to be back in Dean’s space as soon as possible, not wanting him to feel another second of cold than necessary. Dean was already pulling him back in, trying to kiss every part of him he could reach. Sam was more than willing to let him because while his hands were still getting the message the rest of Dean was warm.

They both groaned as their cocks met and Sam couldn’t help but move against him. He had sort of done this frenzied, sometimes drunk makeouts and heavy petting that usually ended with Sam rubbing one out. Never this. Never full skin against skin, firm where women were often soft. Sam managed to tear his gaze away from Dean's face long enough to look down between them. He had to look, make sure this was real. They were almost identical, and Dean was already hard and leaking and Sam desperately wanted to taste him. Dean whined when Sam pulled away but was quickly pacified by Sam mouthing at his chest, stomach. Dean froze when Sam reached just above his cock. He opened his legs out of instinct more than desire, tense in a way he wasn’t just a moment before. Sam looked up and saw Dean focusing on the ceiling. “Dean…”

Dean looked down for a quick moment. “I’m okay. It’s just…I’m not making you do this, right?”

Sam couldn’t help but laugh and felt a tension he didn’t know he was holding melt away when he saw Dean smile. “Yeah, you kinda are. But…when have you ever known me to do something I didn’t wanna do?” Sam kissed at Dean’s hip, hiding his smile. “I want to, I really want to. I swear.” It was true. Sam didn’t think he had ever wanted something as bad as this. This was a moment years in the making. Innumerable moments of unresolved sexual tension and near misses like a long bout of foreplay.

Dean seemingly satisfied, leaned back down. “Then I guess you should…shit.”

Sam laughed as he slid his mouth over Dean’s cock. It was warm and earthy and made his mouth water. Sam had never done this before, but porn filled in the gaps. He must not have been doing too bad considering Dean’s moans and desperate little thrusts to get further into Sam’s mouth. Sam slowly pulled his lips back and gingerly ran his teeth along Dean’s shaft. Dean bucked. “Fuck, Sammy.” Sam did it once more, stilling when Dean gently pushed at his shoulders. Sam looked up at him. “I…I don’t want to come like that.” Dean was back to speaking in that soft voice, full of insecurity.

Sam shivered as the realization hit him. “You sure?”

Dean nodded. “Do…do you have anything?” Fuck. No, he didn’t. He always had a couple of condoms, sure, just in case, and all that jazz. But when he started dating Jess, he didn’t think to buy lube. They’d never even ended up using the condoms. The thought of doing this any way but perfect made Sam want to dry heave. Dean must have seen the abject disappointment in Sam’s face because he snorted. Sam wasn’t sure if Dean was upset until Dean was pulling him back to him, their faces so close Sam thought they might go cross-eyed. He was grinning.

“So what did you think about?”

Sam blinked. “Um…” Jesus. Sam didn’t know how Dean could think when they like this.

Dean moved so Sam’s leg was in between his thighs. Sam felt his eyes hood at the soft warmth of Dean’s hip. “You telling me every time you jacked off to me it was just you fucking me?” Sam opened his mouth. “Or vice versa?” Dean added. Sam blinked. He knew what Dean was asking and if he was being honest the answer was no. There were too many scenarios to name, some of them too embarrassing to even say out loud. Dean had a hand around Sam’s cock, gentle pumps to keep him hard. “Tell me.”

Sam blushed. “I…” Sam shook his head. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t suave like Dean. No one would ever make the mistake that any of the Winchester men were lacking in the looks department, but Dean had seemingly known since birth that he could make both the girls’ knees weak and boys swoon. Dean wielded his looks and confidence like a tool, using them to gain trust and get information, even if it was just a girl’s phone number. Sam just didn’t. He’d been complimented enough on his looks enough times to believe it, but he was always the one getting hit on never the other way around. Dean always had the right thing to say, knew how to be coy and just the right amount of corny to be endearing.

Dean touched at Sam’s forehead, pressing out the creases. “What?”

“I’m not good at this like you are.” Sam sighed. “I’m not good at being…” Jesus. Sam didn’t even know the word for it.

Dean smiled and Sam relaxed. They should find a way to bottle the feeling he got when Dean smiled; they would make millions. Dean flipped them until they were on their sides face to face. Sam couldn’t even take in the change in position before Dean was hauling him in closer by his neck. Sam liked the way Dean kissed; it was so similar to the way he did. Dean gave it his all; all the teeth and tongue and lips he could manage. Dean gave Sam’s lips a parting nip before mouthing at his neck. Sam let his head fall back into the trusting grip of Dean’s hand, giving him the space to mark Sam’s throat. Sam groaned and grabbed at Dean’s waist, nearly coming at the thought of people seeing, people knowing. He’d shout it from the rooftops until his voice was raw.

“Did you think about this?” Dean’s voice was hot air against Sam’s chest.

“Yeah.” Of course, he had. He tried to think back to when he learned what kissing was, maybe he saw it in a movie or a couple engaging in some PDA. Sam couldn’t pinpoint it. It hadn’t started out as sexual; Sam knew that kisses were for people who loved each other Sam couldn’t think of anyone he loved more than Dean. Then puberty happened and Sam’s world shifted. Gone were the days of cooties and thinking girls were gross, he wanted to kiss Dean. He started watching Dean’s mouth more than his face when he spoke, learned exactly how his lips curved around a spoon when he was eating ice cream, how it differed from the creases around a fork when he was digging into a slice of pie.

Dean pressed them closer until their cocks met, back to alternating between bites and kisses. “And this?” Sam nodded as he rutted against Dean, trying to recreate that first spark. Holy shit. Of course, Sam had thought about it. He remembered the first time he had seen Dean naked and liked it, took a long look because no one knew he was watching. They were in Georgia and the cabin they were squatting in had only windows to keep them cool when inside, so Sam and Dean made a habit of laying on the small dock by the pond that sat beside the house, jumping in whenever they’d had a mind to. School had let out early because there was a gas leak and Sam had thanked God for it. He saw Dean in nothing but a pair of shades, right leg folded at the knee and to the side, the other stretched out. The sun was coming down with a vengeance, goldening Dean’s skin and hair. Sam got as close as he could, looked for as long he could, before heading inside and taking the longest shower on record. Came twice just thinking about how Dean’s sun-hot skin would taste.

Dean groaned and Sam heard his breath coming faster, sharp, short gasps. Suddenly, Sam needed to see it, needed to see Dean fall apart. Sam entwined their legs, using the momentum of their hips to flip them so Sam was on top. His hands tightened their grip around Dean’s thighs and Sam felt a thrill knowing that he would leave bruises only meant for them to see. “Fuck, Sammy. I’m so close.” Dean’s hand was like a vice on his arm, keeping them both grounded to the here and now.

“Yeah?” Sam almost couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that Dean was going to come for him. The rough glide of their cocks was the perfect pain-pleasure and Sam never wanted it to end.

Dean nodded like his life depended on it. “Look at me.”

Sam’s eyes shot open. How could they have been shut? Dean’s perfect skin glowing in the TV light, sweat making him shine. Sam met Dean’s eyes and saw they weren’t green anymore but an almost clear blue like kerosene, Dean had taken his bottom lip under his teeth and Sam thumbed at his chin until he let go. Only he could bruise those lips. “So beautiful.” He murmured. A look skated across Dean’s face, surprise and love and something else Sam couldn’t name but made his chest give a tug. Maybe disbelief. Sam couldn’t be sure but if there was the slightest chance… “You’re beautiful, Dean. So beautiful. Love you so much.” Sam hadn’t planned on that last part.

Dean’s eyes widened for just a moment before they shut, his body stilling as his cock jumped and twitched against Sam’s. Sam felt the first splashes of the wet heat and couldn’t hold on anymore. His body numbed and he felt his hands loosen, barely moving to catch him before he fell into Dean.

****

Dean honestly couldn’t remember ever being called beautiful. He’d been cute when he was a kid, hot since he was a teenager and every once in a while, usually when someone was drunk enough to say it, pretty, the word he hated the most, sprinkled in throughout his later years. It was probably one of the few words that offended Dean because he was never called pretty. It was always pretty mouth, pretty eyes, pretty face, pretty boy…No one ever really meant it either, it was always layered with sexual innuendo that made his skin crawl.

You’re beautiful, Dean. So beautiful. Dean wanted to record those words, get a Walkman, and just play the tape over and over. The breathy want in Sam’s words enough to make both his chest and dick ache. Moment gone; Dean would have to settle for his memory. He glanced over at Sam, who to everyone but Dean would appear asleep, but Dean knew better, knew how Sam couldn’t replicate the special cadence of his breathing only sleep brought him. Dean got up and sure enough, Sam groaned, an arm coming around Dean’s waist lazily. “Bathroom.” The arm loosened.

Dean pulled back the covers and shivered, fighting the urge to just crawl right back in bed. He saw that their curtains were still open and shut them. They were definitely going to sleep in tomorrow. In the bathroom, Dean felt around for the smallest towel and ran it under the hot water, wringing out the excess. He cursorily wiped at his stomach, before heading out and doing the same for Sam. He thought about putting the towel back in the bathroom, but the warm towel had only made him want the warmth of their bed back even more.

Sam had his arms around Dean pulling him down into the bed, resuming their previous position; half of Sam’s body haphazardly thrown over Dean’s. Sam deliberately laid his hand over Dean’s chest directly over his heart, his fingers threaded through the cord of his amulet. Dean waited for him to say something, but he only sighed. Dean started drawing shapes and words into Sam’s back. Runes of protection and love he’d remembered, their names. The TV was casting an almost blue-like glow to the dark room, the volume just loud enough to hear it. 

“Truth,” Dean said.

“Biggest regret,” Sam answered without skipping a beat.

Dean thought long and hard about it. There were a lot of things he regretted doing, saying even, the problem was ranking them. “Stanford,” he settled on. It was the only thing he had control over that maybe would have prevented them from ending up here. Dean felt Sam tense. “Not you going,” Dean clarified. “I think I always wanted you to leave someday, go out and have all the things Dad and I couldn’t…But I should have left then, gone with you. I think I was waiting for you to ask and you didn’t, so I told myself that meant you didn’t want me there.”

Sam was barely more than a silhouette shaking his head. “I was so close to asking you so many times…But I always came up with a reason not to. How would you hunt? Where would we live? What would we do?” Sam cleared his throat. “I didn’t trust myself, living alone with you in a place where no one would have to know we were brothers.” Too tempting.

Dean didn’t say anything for a long moment, letting himself imagine all the different possibilities and stopping before it hurt too much. “Like I said, regret.”

“Truth,” Sam said before Dean could even pose himself to ask.

“Do you really hate being called Sammy?” Dean felt like he already knew the answer but wanted to know. It didn’t really matter, he was going to call his brother Sammy until the day he–. Until the day.

Sam snorted and Dean felt Sam’s smile against his throat. “Not when it’s you.”

“Truth,” Dean said. There really wasn’t a point in going through the motions. Saying the word was just a way to designate whose turn it was. They were just talking, promising to answer each other’s questions with the utmost truth, no half or non-answers.

“What would you do if you didn’t have to hunt?” Sam asked, his voice was getting quieter. They weren’t whispering but not quite projecting either, almost as if they were talking to themselves. “Like what if our lives were switched and you wanted to go to college, what would you major in?”

Dean knew the answer immediately but knew that Sam would want Dean to show him and Dean was just selfish and lazy enough to not want to get up. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Promise.” Dean expected Sam to question him on it, to needle him just a few more times as was required in the little brother's job description, but he didn’t.

“Truth,” Sam said, taking Dean’s hand in his, the now-empty space on Dean’s chest quickly cooling. Dean felt how different Sam’s hands were from his. Like every other part of him, Sam’s fingers were long and thin, his palm softer than Dean’s gun-calloused one.

Dean felt himself getting tired but fought the urge. He didn’t know if they would have moments like this again, so close and open. There was one question that he had been dying to know ever since he picked up Sam from Stanford. He’d never asked for a lot of reasons; he hadn’t been ready for the answer, he’d had no right to ask, and Sam deserved to have at least some secrets. But now Dean felt ready, even if the answer wasn’t the one he wanted to hear. So while it still wasn’t his place and Sam still had every right to keep some things to himself, Dean had to know. “If she hadn’t died, would you have married her?” Dean couldn’t bring himself to say her name. He couldn’t be sure if it was for Sam’s sake or his.

“No.” Sam tightened his grip on Dean’s hand, “It wouldn’t have been fair to her; to propose knowing she’d say yes, and I’d never love her that way, not fully.”

Dean swallowed back the bile that came from his relief. He had no right, no claim to Sam. Jessica never had a chance and that meant that she died for nothing. Even more so now that Dean was too. “So what would you have done if Dad hadn’t gone missing if I didn’t come back for you?”

“What I was doing before you came, I guess. Going through the motions. I would have had my interview, probably broken up with Jess. Become a lawyer and keep hoping that one day you’d start dropping by again or wait to get the balls to call you, whichever came first.”

Dean had a feeling he knew what Sam was going to ask next but figured he’d at least give him the benefit of the doubt. Sam was as predictable as he wasn't. “Truth.”

“Why did you stop coming to visit?”

Yep. There it was.

Dean thought about not telling Sam the whole truth, leave out the bits that would make him look like even more of a coward. “I didn’t.” Dean felt the brush of Sam’s brow furrowing. In for a penny, they said. “I never stopped coming. I’d drive around the town, stopping when I saw you, and just watch. Catch you walking into a bar with friends or studying outside. It was nice, seeing your life without me there to fuck it up.” Sam started to pull away, but Dean held him fast, squeezing Sam’s hand. “Sam–.”

“Why?” Sam’s voice was breaking, and Dean needed to fix this fast.

“Because it hurt too much, having to go so far to see you and when I came by it wasn’t the same. We lost our groove. Being brothers was never something we had to work at, it was the one thing in our lives that came to us naturally. You never wanted to talk about hunting and eventually you ran out of stories to tell me.” Dean sighed. “That last time…” Dean didn’t even want to say it. It was such a stupid fight. Well, it had actually been a bunch of stupid little fights that finally culminated in the big one that left Dean walking away.

Sam had wanted Dean to meet his friends. Dean would have rather eaten glass than try to figure out all the lies Sam had told about their family and civilians always asked too many questions. Dean had wanted to hustle pool and the ploy was always easier with two and Sam refused because he didn’t want to get banned. Dean with nothing to do had gotten bored and flirted a little too well with some barfly and Sam got huffy when she wouldn’t get the hint. Sam not so subtly staked his claim which pissed Dean off because of reasons. They both drank past their limit. Dean got ready to head out because it had stopped being fun hours ago. Sam drunkenly begged him to stay like he usually did but not for another day, permanently. Dean said no because he got petty and childish when he was drunk.

Then Sam did something he never did. _Please, Dean. Don’t you want me to be happy?_ Sam had leaned in, close enough to kiss. It was manipulation but Sam was either too drunk to tell or too drunk to care. All the guilt that Dean had already harbored mixed in with anger and embarrassment like a Molotov cocktail and the alcohol was the match. Dean pushed Sam away, drunkenness keeping him from catching his balance. Dean took Sam’s phone and called the first number with a California area code, telling whoever answered to come pick Sam up. Dean watched from his car until another pulled up. A tall, stocky, Black kid in a Stanford hoodie pulled Sam into his car, looked around for who called him before giving up. Sam had blown up his phone like crazy for weeks and Dean had them all go to voicemail.

Dean couldn’t decide if the last voicemail –Sam’s voice slurred and watery like he’d been crying, his mouth too close to the speaker. Dean, please just call me. Please…God, you’re such a coward. – hurt more than the calls stopping altogether.

“That last time,” Sam picked up where Dean left off. “I was drunk enough to say all the things I wanted to but too drunk to do it the right way. You never let me say sorry.”

Dean shrugged, “Because you didn’t need to. I wasn’t mad at you, at least not after I sobered up. I was mad at myself and the world because if things were just different, we could be together.”

Dean couldn’t help but think about it. What if he and Sam weren’t brothers? What if they met at school or a bar? Fell in love like normal people with the unknown blessing of having different last names. What if they were brothers but Mom never died? Or maybe she did but not by anything inexplicable? Would they still be this close? Was the fact that they were the only true constants in each other’s lives the reason they got this love and clung to it? Dean liked to think they would.

He would be the one to approach Sam in a bar and make him roll his eyes. Maybe without the fear of what goes bump in the night and their lives practically always in danger, their love would be just as strong but not as heart-wrenching. Their bond solid, but not unsettling to those around them. Dean had heard the whispers, hoped he’d silenced the particularly loud ones before they got to Sam. _Those Winchesters boys are attached at the hip. Heard the older one got suspended for punching a kid just for shoving his brother. They don’t even bother talking to no one but themselves. It’s weird. You think…_ Maybe they would be different, not as codependent.Maybe this wouldn’t hurt so much.

“I kinda like the way we are now,” Sam said, just a little petulantly like he was daring Dean to argue.

Dean smiled and kissed the top of Sam’s head, so he’d feel it. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“Truth,” Sam said around a yawn.

They were both getting tired, so Dean figured he’d make it easy. “Will you take me to get waffles tomorrow?”

Sam laughed sleepily and nuzzled in closer, kissing at Dean’s ear. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, Dean.”

Mission accomplished. No tap-dancing needed.

****

Sam woke to the sound of the shower. It wasn’t as nice as waking up to the sound of Dean’s heartbeat but good enough. Dean was still here. Using up all the hot water as usual. The side of the bed was still warm so Dean must have just gotten in the shower.

Sam got up and cleaned up the room, gathering up the torn paper and his shot laptop in armfuls out to the dumpster, before heading to the front desk to ask where the best breakfast was. The woman, in her mid-fifties at least, blushed before stammering out the name of some diner. It wasn’t until Sam was heading back to the room that he caught a glimpse of his love-bitten skin in a passing window. Sam called John just to say that he had. He didn’t bother leaving a message.

Sam hesitated just before going back to the room. He thought about calling Bobby. He might have some insight on something that could save Dean or, more likely even, had an idea where their father was so they could break the good news. Sam thought he should be more concerned with getting a hold of John but just couldn’t find it in him. What if the hunt went even worse and one of them was dead? It wouldn’t have mattered, wouldn’t change the fact that John still wasn’t picking up the damn phone, too hell-bent on the chase. If John just happened to get in contact with Sam after Dean…well, there was going to be no one to blame but himself.

Sam leaned against the hood of the Impala, flipping his phone open and shut over and over again. He understood John’s obsessions, in parts at least; he knew all too well how easy it was to get fixated on something, tunnel-vision to the mission. Sam had been trying to save Dean, keep him alive, not avenge him because luckily the thing that hurt Dean was destroyed. He couldn’t lie and say that right after Jess died, the only thing he wanted to do was move Heaven, Hell, and Earth to find the culprit and make them pay. But Sam didn’t have two kids to care for and he hoped he would have had enough sense to let it go after twenty-plus years because it wasn’t going to bring Jess back.

Almost a year had passed since Jess but Sam was only now just getting it: Revenge was pointless. If Sam could save people from going through what he went through with Jess then that was great, but he wasn’t going to break his back trying, wasn’t going to stop living. He’d been making that mistake for the past three days and nearly lost his brother in the process.

Sam was still angry and torn-up in ways he couldn’t even name about what happened to Jessica not just because he loved her but because he couldn’t help but feel it was his fault. Not just the dreams he ignored, but there was this gnawing feeling that it wasn’t random. Jessica dying exactly the way Mom did, it couldn’t be a coincidence. What Sam would have given to have had a dream about this. Maybe he would have known to look for the water or told Dean to go upstairs with the kids…Sam shook his head. No, he couldn’t think like that anymore, he couldn’t change the past.

Because right now, Dean was dying and Sam could barely bring himself to think about what he was going to do after. Find Dad, toast to Dean, and keep saving people, hunting things? Continue the search for the thing that killed Mom and Jess? Leave it all behind and go back to Stanford? None of the options seemed remotely possible, each unlikely as the other. The future was coming up scarily blank and there wasn’t anything Sam could do about it except accept it. He didn’t like feeling helpless or leaving things up to chance, but he was going to have to because what he and Dean had now was great and he couldn’t afford to mess it up.

The shower was off when Sam got back to the room, but the bathroom door still closed. He shrugged out of his sweatshirt and slipped back into his socked feet. “That you, Sammy?” Dean called. Sam opened the bathroom instead of answering, a hot puff of steam meeting him. Dean was trying to shave in the fogged-up mirror, towel slung low on his waist. Dean coughed out a laugh. “Forgot how to knock?”

Sam shook his head, taking the razor from Dean. “Nope.” Sam jerked his chin to the commode. Dean rolled his eyes before sitting.

“Control freak.” He muttered.

Sam smiled as he knelt, leaning in more than necessary. “Hey, be nice or no waffles.” Dean snorted, holding himself impeccably still as Sam firmly ran the razor up his neck, his left hand pulling the skin gently taut. “You sleep well?”

Dean hummed affirmatively.

“You take all the hot water?” Sam asked, cleaning the razor off before starting back in. He’d never done this before, but it wasn’t that hard when he reminded himself to do it backward.

Dean hummed in the affirmative again, this time fighting a grin.

“Jerk.” Sam dragged the blades down over Dean’s right cheek in quick succession. He rinsed the razor one last time finishing up Dean’s neck. He wet the corners of the last towel with hot and cold water and removed any last remnants of foam. He pat the cold corner over Dean’s face, smirking at the sigh Dean released. With Dean’s stubble gone he could pass for someone younger. It could have been all in Sam’s head, but he thought Dean looked better, healthier. His skin was not quite as sallow though his eyes were still holding bags even though he got enough sleep.

“Like what you see?” Dean hedged, closing the space between them. His mouth was even softer and coupled with the mint of their toothpaste Sam wanted more. Sam couldn’t resist letting his lips brush against the new smoothness, already wanting to paint the skin up with marks to match his own. Dean sighed and leaned back, giving Sam all the space he needed. Sam followed, bracing his hands against the wall behind Dean.

Sam realized he still hadn’t answered. “Yes. Beautiful,” He mumbled, trying to get the words out as quickly as possible. Dean shivered but it wasn’t from the cold. So Dean liked to be complimented. Good to know. When Sam figured he’d done his fair share of damage he went back to Dean’s mouth, sucking at his bottom lip.

Sam felt Dean’s hands at his chest, toying with his nipples before making their way down. Sam jerked into the touch and pulled Dean forward by his hips, his towel falling open. “I want to.” Sam breathed into Dean’s mouth. “Please?” He wasn’t even sure Dean knew what he was asking but it didn’t really matter because Dean was nodding trying to get his fill of Sam’s lips.

Dean fresh out of the shower tasted different, not as salty, his natural scent overpowered by cheap motel soap. Sam wouldn’t say that he minded but it was worth noting. The noises Dean was making were also worth noting, deep moans and soft whimpers every time Sam sucked particularly hard. Sam glanced up at him through his bangs, catching a nearly-blurred glimpse of Dean’s head thrown back, bottom lip white where it was trapped in his teeth, his mouth pink from Sam’s attention. Sam ran his hands over the too-soft skin of Dean’s inner thighs, leaning into his twitches. Sam didn’t have to look up to know that Dean’s mouth was open now, his moans now interrupted by small cries.

“Sam,” Dean warned. Sam focused his lips on the head of Dean’s cock to show him how much he wanted it, needed Dean to come in his mouth right now. Sam let his teeth give the smallest of nibbles, barely a scrape and Dean was filling his mouth with one final cry, his body giving in to a thick shudder. Sam swallowed around him, tonguing at the slit. Dean hissed and whimpered. Sam pulled off, his head falling to Dean’s still quivering thigh as he thrusted into his grip. “Oh, no you don’t.” Dean pushed Sam’s hand away replacing it with his own. Dean mouthed at Sam’s ear; words almost drowned out by Sam’s moans. “That’s it, Sammy. Come for me.”

Sam came hard and lasting, feeling it in his bones. He traded lazy kisses with Dean until he felt like he could stand without making a fool of himself. Showering and getting dressed was almost a blur. Dean had lied about using all the hot water. Dean was waiting patiently for Sam to help him get dressed, all the awkwardness gone. Maybe it was because Sam didn’t see it all that differently from undressing him. Maybe it was because they were in a better place.

****

As promised, Sam took Dean to get waffles. The diner is no different than all the others they’ve visited; décor straight from the 1960s, laminated menus, and squeaky booths. Dean noticed it seemed a lot cleaner than the others; he didn’t get the urge to examine the silverware. It was seat-yourself so Sam helped Dean to a booth halfway between the front entrance and the bathroom. They’d luckily missed the breakfast rush and thankfully this was the type of place that catered to people passing through rather than locals and served breakfast all day.

A bottle blonde woman with a hairstyle that hit its peak in the same era as this diner walked over to their table, pad in hand and pen at the ready. Her name tag read: BRENDA. “What can I start you two boys off with?”

Dean barely glanced at the menu before ordering. Breakfast was pretty much the same everywhere they went. Except for that one diner in Ohio that didn’t have hash browns, only home fries. Like they were the same fucking thing. “I’ll have the waffles, extra crispy. Four eggs, soft scrambled, bacon a little floppy, and hash browns just a little burnt.”

Brenda smirked as she wrote. “I like a man who knows what he wants. Decaf?”

Dean shook his head. “Orange juice, please.”

“Alrighty and you?” Brenda turned her attention to Sam who was looking at Dean like he had a secret.

“I’ll have the same,” Sam said, handing her both of their menus.

Dean raised his eyebrows as Brenda left to put their order in, “Since when do you try to keep up with me?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s not like we’re hunting, no need to stay in shape.”

Dean smirked. True enough. “You talk to Dad?” Dean knew Sam wouldn’t keep something like that from him, but they had only talked about him in passing and Dean wanted to get the inevitable out of the way.

“Just his voicemail.” Sam eked the words out around a grin that was anything but sweet.

Dean fought not to shrug. He wasn’t surprised, Dad had trouble answering the phone on a good day and Dean was used to it. It wasn’t like he knew one of his sons was getting ready to kick the bucket. But Dean knew Sam would say that was the point. Dean could hear the words surely as Sam had said them. Dad should learn how to pick up the damn phone. He stopped trying to figure out why Sam and Dad could never seem to make it ten minutes without screaming at each other or slamming doors about seven years ago. It probably had something to do with Sam’s problem with authority and Dad’s iron fist. Dean accepted Dad for who he was; a sad, lonely man trying his best. Dad had been dealt some shit cards and managed to make his way to the other side of the table. Sam wasn’t nearly so lenient. Dean figured it was partially his fault, most things were when it came to Sam.

Dad had left Dean in charge more often than not and Dean, still a child, just couldn’t bring himself to do things Dad’s way. He would break his back to make sure Sam never cried and let him talk back because how was an eleven-year-old going to convince a stubborn eight-year-old that he was the boss. Dean didn’t shout or tell Sam that everything that wasn’t about hunting was pointless. Dad came back to a kid used to being heard and understood and could only deal with it by doling out punishments and harsh words.

Dean hoped that if Sam found Dad things would improve; with Dean gone there’d be no one to get in between them, no one to keep them from exchanging blows. Actually, he might have been better off starting small and hope Sam at least tried to find Dad.

“We can keep looking for him.” Sam was still looking like someone kicked his dog as he slid his wrapped silverware back and forth across the table. Like Dean couldn’t tell that it was the last thing he wanted to do.

Dean leaned back into the booth and sighed. “Sam, I can’t think of anything I want to do less than spend my last days looking for someone who don’t wanna be found.” Dean rubbed his hands together, trying to move the warmth in his palms to his fingers. “It’s not for me. I just thought…I don’t know what I thought.”

Sam laid one of his big spidery hands over Dean’s, looking sad in a whole new way. “Tell me.”

“Maybe I just thought it might be nice if the man knew before the fact is all.” Maybe I didn’t want you to be alone when you burn my body.

Sam nodded, “Yeah that would be nice.”

Brenda came back with their food and Dean was grateful for the distraction.

Sam reached for the syrup at the same time he did, their fingers brushing. Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Sam snorted and just like that things were back to normal.

“So, what’s the big secret that you couldn’t tell me last night?” Sam asked as he shook salt and pepper over his eggs.

Dean had actually wondered if Sam forgot but knew that wasn’t likely; Sam had a scarily good memory. Dean reached into the inside pocket of his coat and slid it across the table to Sam. Dean saw Sam’s confusion. Dean shook his head, mouth still full of egg and potato. “It’s not Dad’s.” It did look similar, but Dean’s journal wasn’t quite as thick as their father’s and had a much less worn cover, the leather a couple of shades darker. He gestured for Sam to open it.

Sam wiped his hands before opening the binder. Dean watched him flip through, looking at everything before starting over and taking his time. It wasn’t anything particularly special, just a bunch of doodles. Monsters they’d hunted, the Impala, Star Wars characters, Sam, and more all sketched on random hotel stationery, napkins, sticky notes, notebook paper, and backs of business cards they didn’t need anymore.

Dean started drawing when he was little like most kids but kept it up because it was one of the more convenient hobbies he had. Drawing didn’t cost money, didn’t take up too much space in his duffle though after almost losing the plastic bag that held his drawings he broke down and bought a journal to keep them in. It was something quiet to do when he was bored or couldn’t sleep.

He’d gotten better in the last few years, more downtime and less need to hide it from Dad when going on solo hunts. He’d never forgotten the picture he’d drawn of Dad’s favorite gun when he was twelve, took him hours to get the detail on the grip just right, only to find it on the floor of the Impala covered in muddy boot prints and torn. Dean had stopped drawing for a while after that. The drawings of Sam were his favorites; he’d spent the most time on them because hair was one of the most difficult things for him to get right. They were only a few, three that were actually done and a fourth that he’d started before Stanford but never got around to finishing.

Sam was eyeing at one of the drawings of him. It was one of the last ones Dean drew. Dean had caught him sleeping after an all-nighter at the table, head in an SAT-prep book, hair in his face, and arms crooked around the book. Dean remembered going through the trouble of drawing the detail of the pages, roughly sketched diagrams and semi-formed letters. He’d drawn it on a sheet of stationery from the motel they’d left a few days ago, saving it because it was harder to come by the better paper.

“Don’t know about college but maybe I’d get good enough to do a comic book about our lives, wouldn’t have to leave anything out because no one’d believe it anyway.” Dean had played around with a few names, The Family Business. Hunters. Salt & Burn, but never really settled on one.

Sam still hadn’t said anything.

Dean coughed. “It’s not Rockwell or anything but…”

“Don’t.” Sam looked up at him, closing the journal and resting his hand on top of it like he thought someone might take it. “They’re really good, Dean.”

This was what Dean was talking about. Sam was so predictable and so surprising that sometimes even Dean, the person who knew him best had trouble keeping up. He thought Sam would be happy seeing the drawings, maybe a little annoyed that Dean never showed him, but Sam looked like Dean had hit him in the stomach and was trying not to cry and it made Dean want to throw up and burn the damn thing.

“Then why do you look like you just ran out of bullets?”

Sam opened his mouth to answer but instead asked, “So what do you want to do?” Sam asked, cutting into his second waffle with a crunch. His syrup on a second plate ready for dipping.

They were both halfway done with their breakfast and Dean was still waiting for Sam to get distracted so he could take his bacon. What the hell was he saving it for? “What do you mean?”

Sam shook his head before looking up at Dean, sadness and frustration a bit too raw for Dean’s liking. “You’re not dying in some dirty motel in Nowhere, USA, Dean. You deserve better than that.”

Dean lifted his hands in appeal. “Okay, okay.” Dean looked around the diner, hoping for some otherworldly sign though he’d settle for an idea. Out the window to his right, a guy in a Hawaiian shirt got out of a beat-up faded-orange pickup. He rounded the cab and opened the door for a young girl with pigtails who struggled to jump out. “The beach,” Dean muttered. Sam was back to looking at his breakfast, so he said it again. “I want to go to the beach.”

Sam nodded to himself. “Okay, beach it is. Closest is Virginia Beach, I think.”

“You know what they say, Sammy,” Dean smirked, snatching up Sam’s bacon. He was dying after all. “Virginia is for lovers.” Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean was pretty sure his blush was visible from space.

**** 

Dean was nearly asleep when he heard Sam say, “Truth.”

Dean chuckled and sat up, it caught his throat wrong and came out mostly as a rough cough. They’d been on the road for a few hours and hadn’t said much. Sam was giving off the impression that he needed some time alone with his thoughts and Dean was nothing if not giving. Besides, there were plenty of his own thoughts to keep him occupied and the Midwest scenery was nice.

“When did you know?”

Sam glanced at him and turned the stereo down. “Know what?”

Dean looked right back at him, waiting for Sam to get it.

“Oh.” Sam fought back a smile. “Attracted to you or in love with you?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Not the same?”

“Thinking my brother is hot and wanting to be with him for the rest of my life are two very different things,” Sam said like it was obvious.

Jesus, they were so different. Sam could wax poetic about love and sappiness in all seriousness with ease but blushed at the thought of telling Dean what was in his spank bank and Dean would rather show his love –could you get mushier than saving a life or wanting to be around someone all the time?– and flex his dirty mouth. That actually wasn’t a bad idea… “You think I’m hot?” Dean smirked.

“Moving on,” Sam rolled his eyes. “My sixteenth birthday. Do you remember?”

It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. Of course, he fucking remembered. He’d never forgotten any of Sam’s birthdays, not even the ones that he wasn’t there for. He called Sam before getting blackout drunk enough times to remember, holidays too. Sixteen. That was the last one they spent together before things went to shit. Dean, oblivious to Sam’s plans, still went all out because he’d seen stuff about sweet sixteens on TV and wanted Sam to have as close to everything as possible.

After taking Sam to the movies and a bookstore, they headed back to the house they were squatting in on the outskirts of town. Dean had taken sweet sixteen literally. They’d finished off the night digging into the most expensive ice cream cake Dean could find with two spoons and all of Sam’s favorite candy while Dean watched Sam open his gifts. Some new shoes, actual new ones that had paper packed into the toe, and a homemade coupon, nothing more than a sticky note with Dean’s neat scrawl. Three turns with the car.

Sam had wanted to cash in right then and Dean had been ready to say no. It was getting late and he hadn’t had a chance to fill up the tank and…damn it, Sam had looked at him with that puppy dog face that Dean had a feeling the little punk knew Dean couldn’t say no to. Coats and shoes back on and uneaten candy in tow, they were back in the car. Since the town they were crashing in had barely enough people to hold a football game and the closest occupied house was at least ten miles in the direction of the city, the dirt roads around them were empty.

Dean had fed him sour straws as he drove because he didn’t want Sam driving one-handed. Instead of Dean’s tape collection, Sam had chosen to listen to the buzzy soft rock station the radio picked up. It had been cold –Dean couldn’t remember the town’s name for the life of him, but he knew they had been up north– but they let the window down anyway.

Sam had found a patch of land a few dozen miles out that had been missing a human’s touch for a least a decade if the dilapidated house and grass were anything to go by; the blades had been up to their waists when they had gotten out. Sam had waited until Dean met him at the front of the car before he shoved him, yelling, “You’re it!”, before taking off at a full sprint.

It was silly and something they hadn’t done in years. All the sugar and excitement had gone to their heads and was coming out of them in hearty laughs and unbridled energy. Weighed down by the junk they’d gorged themselves on, Dean didn’t catch Sam as easily as he would have, and Sam couldn’t keep up his pace as long as he usually could. Dean tackled him with arms around his stomach, pulling them both to the ground.

They had wrestled, chests heaving, and pupils were blown wide in the dark. Dean had pinned Sam first, waiting for his brother’s signature reversal that would have him end up his back but it never came. Sam had just stared up at him, eyes more black than their usual blue-green-gray, grin so wide that Dean had felt a pang in his own cheeks, though that may have been because he had been smiling just as wide for just as long.

Neither of them had said anything, just looked at each other waiting for the other to make the move neither of them had the nerve to until their breathing calmed. Dean had felt Sam’s wrists twitch in his grasp, and he immediately let go. Sam had reached up to brush away the blades of grass that had caught on Dean’s cheeks, his fingers lingering longer than needed. Dean had leaned into the touch. “You’re it,” Dean remembered saying.

Dean coughed, coming back to the present. “Yeah, I remember.” Sam must have heard something in his voice, something that made Sam lean over and take Dean’s hand in his bringing it to his lips. Dean didn’t know what he needed at that moment but that was damn near close. “Truth,” Dean said.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about your drawings?”

Again. So predictable. So surprising. Dean would have put money on the idea that Sam was going to reciprocate his question, ask Dean when he knew. When did he know that Sam was it for him? When did he know that all he was looking for in anybody he took to bed was his own brother? It was funny, that question might have been easier. Dean chuckled and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Sam shot back. “Just like you know why you never told Dad. Hell, I know why you never told Dad.”

Dean turned to Sam. He sounded so sure of himself that it was going to be that much more satisfying when Dean told him he was wrong. “Oh, really, oh wise one? Do tell.” Sometimes Sam acting like he knew every damn thing made him want to punch a wall.

“Don’t dodge the question, Dean,” Sam snapped. “I wanna know why you felt you couldn’t tell me…why you didn’t trust me.”

Fuck. “I did trust you. I do trust you.” Dean waited for Sam to acknowledge him. He had to stop that lie in its tracks. Sam met his eyes for just a moment before turning back to the road. Satisfied, Dean squeezed at his hand and leaned back into his seat with a sigh. “I don’t know. Lots of reasons, I guess. I didn’t get as good as I wanted to be until right before you left and maybe I didn’t want to show you until I was perfect. Part of me thought you’d tell Dad and make a big deal about it.” Dean found himself chuckling again. “I mean, I was drawing you for God’s sakes, some people would get the hint.”

Sam didn’t rise to the bait. “Is that why you didn’t tell Dad? He’d get the hint?”

Dean shook his head as a thought occurred to him. “You can tell him, you know.” When I’m gone, was left unsaid. “In case you needed my permission or something.”

Sam sneered and Dean saw his hands tighten around the wheel. “So he can blame me?” Dean was pretty sure that Dad would blame him but who knew what grief would do, maybe Dad wouldn’t be able to stomach thinking the worst of his dead son. Sam kept going. “I can hear him now. Jesus, Sam, how could you? You know Dean would do anything for you and you took advantage. You’ve damned him, you know that, right?” Sam scoffed. “As if I hadn’t watched him take advantage of you for years like you were some toy soldier made to take his orders.”

“Stop,” Dean shuddered. Sam was a little too good at imitating their father and John’s wrath, even imaginary and indirect was too much to handle right now. “I can actually think for myself, Sam. Just because you’ve got some genetic aversion to following orders and I don’t doesn’t mean that I’m Dad’s pet, alright. I broke a lot of Dad’s rules, I just never felt the need to tell him, maybe sometimes I thought it might be better to just follow his orders because I didn’t see the point in having some useless fight.” Dean laughed to himself. “Kinda like this one.”

“We weren’t fighting,” Sam said, taking an exit. “We were…disagreeing.”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, okay, Dr. Phil.”

Sam filled up the tank and made a pit stop at the Wal*Mart across the street. They need some things if they were heading to the beach, more than what the gas station offered and their paltry cash would allow. Sam figured maxing out one of their credit cards would be the least of their worries. Dean looked comfortable. “You want me to get you anything?” Dean shook his head, donning his shades and leaning back in his seat.

****

Dean waited until he heard the door shut and Sam’s footsteps fade before letting out the cough he’d been holding in. He had felt the itch in his throat after the gas station, but he’d noticed Sam tensing every time he so much as cleared his throat or breathed too heavy. Each cough made way for another until Dean felt like they would never stop. He coughed so much that his chest, throat, and stomach ached, and his lungs fought for air. The coughs brought up phlegm and when Dean opened the door to spit it was tinged with red. Dean fought to catch his breath, panic setting in that maybe this was it. Maybe they weren’t even going to make it to the beach. The coughs slowed to little more than hiccups, calming enough that Dean could drink some water. Dean sighed, leaning back into his seat.

****

Sam headed to the produce section first. He picked out apples, grapes, oranges, as well as some fruit and veggie cups. He’d pull over and force Dean to eat something that wasn’t cooked on a grill or in grease if he had to. He added a couple of the thickest and softest blankets he could find because he’d noticed Dean shivering in the car. Sam thought of everything they could need for the beach; swimming trunks –he smiled to himself when he’d found a pair with the Batman insignia in Dean’s size–, flip-flops, sunscreen, and beach towels, chairs, and umbrellas. Sam thought of last night and blushed as he headed to the personal section of the store. Sam had never bought lube before but should have known like every other item sold in America there were plenty to choose from. All the dark boxes with sensual fonts and designs were meant to evoke passion and Sam just wanted something plain. He chose the most expensive one that didn’t promise tingling sensations and made his way to the checkout.

An aisle with big yellow signs caught his attention: BACK TO SCHOOL ZONE. Sam stopped and made his way back through the store in search of the art supply section, with Dean’s loose drawings carefully placed in his journal, flooding to his mind. Sam had absolutely no clue what he should get so he settled for following his gut, opting for the more expensive options when he couldn’t decide. Sam barely glanced at the total.

****

Dean stirred when Sam got back in the car. “You can go back to sleep.” Dean shook his head and sat up, blinking blearily, wondering how long he’d been out. Sam turned the heat down when Dean had finally stopped shivering. Dean was grateful for the blanket, much better than the heat that the Impala poured out, making the car feel like a sauna. They filled up the silence with useless chatter, switching from Truth or Dare to Would You Rather.

“Would you rather lose your sense of taste or your sense of touch?”

“Taste,” Sam answered, taking their next exit.

Dean hissed, “I don’t know if I could live without tasting pie ever again.” Sam leaned over to run his hand over Dean’s thigh. Dean shivered. “I’d find a way though.”

“Would you rather lose your voice or never be able to tell a lie?”

Dean took a moment to think, his lips pursed and turned to the side. “Never tell a lie. Definitely would have to give up hunting though.” Dean chuckled, “Telling Sheriff Schmoe that his citizens are being picked off by a Wendigo probably wouldn’t end well.” Sam agreed but still chose to lose his voice. Dean looked at him. “You? Straight-shooter Sammy?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Some people won’t admit that they’d take a pretty lie over the ugly truth any day.”

“And you’re the good Samaritan who’s gonna keep the wool over their eyes?” Dean didn’t believe it. Sam had always been the one ready to explain to the people they helped. A soft look and a calm voice telling them that the things that went bump in the night were real, but it was going to be okay because he and his big brother were gonna save the day. Dean never liked answering all their stupid questions on a good day. Sam just shrugged.

“Would you rather go to the future or the past?”

Sam hesitated. “We talking just visiting or we can change outcomes?”

“Just visiting.” Dean reached to the backseat where their snacks were stashed. He pulled open a bag of Lays, offering Sam first pick. He figured he deserved something with salt after all the rabbit food Sam had made him eat.

“Past, then,” Sam said around a mouthful of chips.

Dean shoved a handful of chips in his mouth. “Future.” The chips were saltier than he remembered and had him reaching for his water. “I wanna see what the world’s gonna look like in a hundred years. Flying cars, teleportation.” Sam couldn’t help but smile, Dean would kill him for saying it, but he was the biggest nerd Sam knew. Sam readjusted in his seat; he’d probably get them a hotel in an hour or so. “So, what would you do, Sammy? Talk to Orson Welles? Hit up a speakeasy?”

Sam shook his head, “I’d go see Mom.”

Dean’s hand stopped halfway through the bag. It was one of their off-limit topics; it hurt too much for Dean and Sam didn’t remember her so there had never really been a point. Dean had always felt bad because he had gotten something that Sam could never have, something they both knew he had desperately wanted. It wasn’t fair and Dean would have moved Heaven and Earth to change it. “Just to see what she was like. We don’t have video of her or anything, barely any pictures…” Sam sighed, and Dean wondered if he should pretend like he couldn’t see the tears welling. “I don’t even know what she sounded like.”

It got quiet for a while; the chips were forgotten and the radio struggled to fill in the gaps. Dean spoke before he could chicken out. He remembered Mom and the memories were too precious to keep in, especially from Sam who deserved to know her beyond some dead woman with a nice smile.

“Sunshine.” Sam turned to him. “She sounded like sunshine.” Memories came back to him in a slow pour, like syrup. “She smelled like vanilla; I think it was her shampoo. She had this real long hair and it’d fall over my face every time she kissed me goodnight. She had real soft hands, too. She was always combing my hair out of my face. When she made pie, she’d smell like apples and cinnamon for days. When I couldn’t go to sleep, she’d sing The Beatles.”

Dean hummed. “She’d, um, switch out Jude for Dean.” Dean saw the road get blurry. “When you were crying, she’d sing Oh, Darling.” Dean wiped hastily at his eyes with his sleeve. “She had these nicknames for us. You didn’t have any hair when you were born but eventually, you grew some, it stuck out in little fuzzy tufts. She called you Caterpillar and I was Dean-Bear.” Dean blew out a sharp breath. He wondered if there was a word for something that hurt just as much as it felt good.

“You think…” Sam was so much better than he was, letting his tears fall because he never cared if anyone saw him cry. They glistened against his cheeks in the streetlights that lined the highway. “Do you think she’d like me?”

Dean coughed out a sad laugh. “Of course she would. You’re just like her, real smart. She was always reading; she’d make Dad sit through Jeopardy.” Dean reached over and took one of Sam’s hands off the wheel. Dean couldn’t see his face, could barely see Sam’s in the night sky, but he was sure that they both had the same expression. Sad, watery smiles and crinkled eyes.

They made it to Iowa in good time, but Sam, even with their stops, was waning. Dean made them stop for the night because he had a feeling that Sam would keep driving until he crashed. Dean felt he should have been surprised when Sam pulled into a chain hotel rather than the local no-name motels they usually frequented. They went in together since it was a pretty long walk to the building, Sam insisting on carrying Dean’s duffel. Their room was nice and air-conditioned and smelled like new sheets and nothing, a nice change from the musty, mystery-stained rooms. It was a nice size, much smaller than a motel since there was no kitchenette.

Dean tore off his shoes and collapsed on the bed; Sam had ordered a King and Dean hadn’t argued. Sam set their bags down and sat in the computer chair. “Hungry?” Dean just grunted from the pillow. They’d been snacking all day. “Yeah, me neither. How about some ice cream?”

Dean sat up. “Vanilla with one of those dipped cones.”

“I think I saw a Dairy Queen a few miles up the street,” Sam flicked on the TV for some background noise and began to unpack. “You can take the first shower and then we’ll go.”

Dean didn’t move, shooting Sam a smirk when he glanced over. “Or we both could take the first shower.” A blush rose on Sam’s cheeks as he made his way over to Dean’s side of the bed. He undressed them both, taking his time with Dean, letting his hands lag. Dean immediately pulled Sam down to him, desperate to feel his warmth. Sam followed, smiling as they kissed. He couldn’t help pouting when Sam pulled back. “I want ice cream, Dean.”

Dean shivered in the best way when they both stepped under the spray. The hot water and Sam’s warm body helped him shake the perpetual cold he’d felt all day. So when Sam’s brow furrowed with worry and he asked if Dean was cold he was more than happy to kiss him with a quiet “No.” on his lips. Dean loved kissing Sam, the split-second moment of is this okay? always giving way to the tacit hell yes of Sam’s returning lips. Dean felt himself getting lightheaded and tried his best to shove it away. Standing too long apparently another thing to add to the ever-growing list of Things Dean Can No Longer Do.

But Sam kept Dean close to him, his back to Sam’s chest, so Dean let himself lean into it, taking some of his weight off his body. Sam’s hands came up from behind him, lathering up the washcloth and methodically running it over Dean’s skin to wash away the grime only a long car ride could bring. Dean waited until Sam coasted the towel over his cock to pump his hips forward. Sam made quick work of his own body. Dean leaned against the wall, turning his back to the spray to face Sam and his soaking wet glory, white soap bubbles slipping and sliding over the ridges of muscles.

As much as he liked when Sam said it, believed that he meant it, Dean thought Sam was the beautiful one. Sam was taller and leaner, able to pull off a haircut only few could, the special slant of his eyes, pointed nose that drew attention to his deep cupid’s bow and dimples. Sam’s hair turned almost black-brown when it got wet and Sam had pushed his bangs back making him look even younger. Dean combed it forward but pushed his bangs off to the side. Better.

He started his mouth at Sam’s forehead, letting his lips skate across all the flesh in between. Sam’s mouth pulled into a grin as Dean’s lips touched his eyelids and cheeks. He shuddered when Dean sucked at his nipples and trembled when Dean’s tongue touched his navel. Dean felt Sam’s deep groan before it even had a chance to echo throughout the porcelain room.

Dean dragged his tongue from root to tip and kissed at the head, desperate to learn what Sam liked. Dean saw Sam’s hands twitch from their place, pressed flat against the wall. Dean pulled them to his head, showing Sam it was okay. Sam’s fingers curled around the base of his skull, thumbs just under the bolt of his jaw. He glanced upward to see Sam’s throat pulled taut, water pooling in that dip beneath his neck. Dean reached up, wanting to feel the moans that he couldn’t hear above the water, his other hand slipping a finger just behind Sam’s balls. Sam immediately pressed into it, moaning when Dean’s finger slipped past that first ring. His hips jerked, softly forward into Dean’s mouth and roughly back on his finger.

Sam came with a heavy convulsion that rocked him to his toes, Dean’s name on his lips. Sam fell to his knees and Dean knew it must have hurt but Sam did nothing to show it. He pushed Dean’s legsapart, letting his thigh slip between them as he pulled Dean into him. Dean rutted against Sam’s slick flesh, letting Sam lick the taste of himself out of his mouth. Sam kept whispering I love you, over and over again like a broken record and Dean could have sworn he could taste the words; he felt them, knew them, and took them as truth, coming as he said them back.

Dean thought he’d done a pretty good job of hiding his fatigue, but he knew Sam must have seen right through it because he offered to just bring him something back. Dean wanted to refuse but the warm bed and the thought of getting dressed and walking back in the less than warm outside wouldn’t let him. Sam left with the promise of returning soon.

It was quiet in the room, even with the TV on. A bit lonely. Sam had been gone for all of five minutes and Dean was already watching the clock and the door, anxious for him to come back. He couldn’t help but think this was what it was going to be like for Sam. Quiet, lonely rooms. Maybe they both should have tried harder to make friends. Well, Sam did have friends, didn’t he? Ones from Stanford. Dean’s friends were hardened hunters, nearly carbon copies of Dad, men more than twice his age thrust into the life of hunting by some tragedy; Pastor Jim, Caleb, Bobby, to name a few.

Dean felt a twinge in his throat. Bobby. He wasn’t going to take this well. Bobby was more of a father to him than Dad was, though he would never say it out loud. Bobby did all the things with them that dads did in the movies. Play catch, teach them cards, how to shave, taught Dean everything he knew about cars  –depressing to think about when Dad was the one who had made his living as a mechanic– and all the other fun things that didn’t have the stain of hunting all over them.

Dean wondered if Sam had called Bobby; if he had been one of the contacts that Sam had tried. Probably not. Bobby was not the type to let sleeping dogs lie. He would have been calling them every day, insisting in that special way of his to get their asses up there to see him. Yeah, being stretched out on a hot beach with Sam would be nice but if Dean had to settle for the cool porch at Bobby’s so Sam wouldn’t have to deal with this alone he would take it. He would take it gladly.

****

Sam made it to the Dairy Queen minutes before they closed. He ordered Dean’s vanilla chocolate dipped cone with peanuts on the side and a Reese’s Blizzard for himself, a large because he knew Dean would want some. Sam thanked his past self for buying a cooler as he shut the ice cream inside. Because no ice cream was actually better than lukewarm melted ice cream.

Not ten minutes later, Sam got back to the room to find Dean had nodded off but shot up the moment the door shut behind him. Sam briefly worried about sleeping in a bed with sheets sticky with ice cream but decided he didn’t care all that much. He tossed Dean the bulk of the napkins because vanilla ice cream had started to pool over the sides of his cone the moment he had taken it out of the cooler.

Dean moaned at the first bite, the chocolate shell collapsing with a resolute snap. Vanilla soft serve pooled out the cracks of the crust and settled into the grooves of the cone. The cone was small, could only fit so much ice cream and Dean finished it off in minutes. “Hadn’t had one of those in forever.” He mumbled through his last bite. “What’d you get?” Sam was barely halfway through his own.

“Reese’s,” Sam said around his own mouthful.

Dean eyed Sam’s cup wistfully, “Can I have some?” Sam rolled his eyes because his brother was so damn predictable and pulled the extra spoon out of his pocket and Dean glared at it. “What, you scared of my cooties?” It was ridiculous, they were brothers; they had had nearly every bodily fluid on them at some point in time, a certain fluid more so recently. Sam didn’t know what to say so he just shoved a spoonful into Dean’s half-expectant mouth.

There wasn’t much on this late, but Dean was content to channel surf. He’d made his way back to the local channels, stopping on Craig Ferguson. “He talks funny,” was all he said, leaning over for Sam to feed him another bite. Sam nearly choked when Dean started doing the worst Scottish accent though his jokes were funnier than the host’s corny monologue. Dean changed the channel when the guests came out, some people neither of them recognized, ending up on Adult Swim playing something called Robot Chicken.

They finished off the ice cream by the light of the TV and when Sam let Dean have the last spoonful, Dean got in his lap and shared it, tonguing the half-melted chocolate peanut butter concoction into his mouth. It wasn’t seamless, some of it dripped down Sam’s chin but Dean was sure to lick it all away. “Fuck, Sammy,” Dean groaned. “The things I wanna do to you.”

They hadn’t talked about it; sex and what that meant for the strain on Dean’s heart. Sam couldn’t put a number to what was far from an exact science but he knew that Dean couldn’t have the marathon sex that most guys his age could handle. He probably couldn’t even handle the stress of actually topping Sam. They were playing it by ear, Sam never going too far under to not keep a watchful eye on Dean. A look that was beyond adoration and passion, watching for the slightest hitch of breath or fatigue.

Dean saw the question in his eyes and nodded. Just one more time tonight. Hope, relief, and worry fought for the real estate on Sam’s face but he was only hoping that Dean could see the want. “Tell me?” Sam’s voice was quiet, almost too quiet to be heard over the TV.

Dean reached over Sam for the remote to switch the TV off, swathing the room in darkness and silence, a silence that Dean quickly rectified. His thumbs rested at the corners of Sam’s mouth, holding him still as he brought his mouth in, knowing that their kisses would become sparse with him talking. He had to get his fill. “Tell you what?”

Sam groaned. Dean was going to make him say it and it was all too much and not enough all at the same time. “Tell me what you’d do to me.” Someone as attractive as Dean looking at Sam like he couldn’t stop if he tried, did wonders for Sam’s self-esteem, made him want to live up to all the things Dean thought of him.

Dean leaned into his ear and poured filth into it and Sam took it all in like a starving man. “I’d lick you open, get my tongue nice and deep, make you beg for my cock. Until you said please just right.” Sam shivered and his cock twitched in his pants. “Looks like you like that. You wanna say it. Say it, Sammy.”

“Please.”

“Sound so pretty.” Dean moved Sam’s hands so they sat high on his hips, just over his ass. “I’d open you up nice and slow with my fingers. Real slow because I don’t want to hurt you and the noises I know you’d make. Wouldn’t fuck you until you could take at least three of them. Then I’d slide my cock in so slow, watching you, making sure you weren’t hurting.” Sam moaned, desperate for more. Dean’s hands were running up and down his sides and Sam wished he would touch him. “How would you want me to do it, Sam? How would you want me to fuck you?”

Sam gasped at Dean’s hand on his cock, pressing both of them together. Sam would want it to last. Dean thrust slowly into the tight grip of his hand, the underside of his cock pressing against Sam’s. “Slow, then. So slow, so I could feel every part of you, fuck you as long as you want. What would you say, Sammy?”

“Fuck, Dean, more. Feels so good.” Sam whispered, shocked at how real it all seemed. How bad he wanted it to be. He’d experimented with fingering himself but other than that had never been penetrated. Now he needed it, needed to know what it felt like to have Dean inside him.

Dean licked at the whorl of Sam’s ear. “What feels good?”

“You.” Sam was so desperate to come, so close to actually begging.

Dean hummed. “Gonna come on your big brother’s cock, Sammy?” Sam keened. Something that felt this right should not have been so wrong, something that had to be hidden. Dean's lips closed around his earlobe. “It’s okay. No one has to know. No one. Just us.” Sam jerked, a wave crested low in his belly. “You close, baby boy?” Fuck. Dean calling him that should be against the law. It probably was in some states.

“Yeah,” Sam moaned. “So close.” Dean pressed the heads of their cocks together, holding them close with the pads of his fingers. Sam started to buck into Dean’s loose grip, breathing so loud because he couldn’t catch his breath.

Dean was the opposite, breath steady as he rocked into his fist, into Sam. “Say it.” Sam knew what Dean wanted him to say but he had never been much to dirty talk and he didn’t want to ruin this just because he was too awkward. Dean mouthed at Sam’s throat. “Come on, Sam. Please. Tell me.”

His eyes were boring into Sam’s and it was suddenly too much. Sam shut his eyes and it made it easier. Easier to say: “I’m gonna come. Gonna come on your cock.” Sam came hard, thrust into heavy aftershocks when he felt their come drip between them, the smell of it mixing with the scent of ice cream that still lingered.

Sam caught his breath, realizing too late that Dean felt too still. “Dean?” He didn’t care how panicked he sounded.

Dean groaned, “I can’t feel my legs.”

Sam sighed in relief and gently rolled them both onto their sides. “Better?” Dean groaned again and Sam couldn’t help but laugh as he made Dean the little spoon. He nuzzled into his hair and neck, breathing him in. Sam pulled the covers over them, making sure Dean had the lion’s share of the comforter. “Truth.”

Dean pulled the hand that was draped over his waist up to his chest. Sam felt himself relax when he felt Dean’s heartbeat in his palm. “Choose dare.”

“Okay,” Sam hesitated for only a moment, wary of what Dean would ask of him only because Sam knew game or not, he couldn’t say no. “Dare.”

“Call Bobby.”

****

“He wants to talk to you.” Sam was holding his phone out to Dean, looking anxious. Dean had woken up to Sam talking in low tones by the window, stepping out when Dean stirred and sat up. Dean had already managed to get his teeth brushed, his face washed, and his energy back by the time Sam returned. Sam had let him sleep in –it was already pushing noon– so Dean had a feeling that Sam wasn’t planning on leaving the room for anything other than food.

Sam stepped back out of the room as Dean brought the phone to his ear. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Hey yourself.” Dean heard Bobby sigh. It crackled through the phone. “How is he?”

Dean didn’t get it. “You just talked to him.”

“Yep.”

Dean got it. “From what I’ve seen he’s alright.” Dean wasn’t sure why he was being careful with his words; Sam wasn’t the type to eavesdrop. Bobby must have heard the non-answer; he stayed silent, waiting for Dean to expound. “It was rough at first, really rough. I think now he’s sort of accepted it, or at least started to. We’re better now.” Dean found himself saying and it was true. Depressing bullshit aside, they were better. More in sync, talking more. Pre-Stanford had nothing on this.

“He said you were the one who told him to call.”

Dean nodded before he realized that the man couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I don’t think he would of until after the fact.” Dean had a couple of theories why. Embarrassment, their relationship, and not knowing what to say. It was Dean’s turn to sigh. “I guess he got that from me. Stupid lone wolf crap.”

“Not that there’s much an old man like me can do when it comes to a Winchester that’s got his mind set on something, but I’ll do my best,” Dean said nothing and Bobby exhaled heavily. “Could do a lot more if you two idjits came ‘round my way.” Dean knew they were close, much closer than Virginia and Sam seemed heartset on making sure Dean didn’t kick the bucket in a hotel, so it was an easy decision. “How are you doing?”

Bobby’s soft rumbled tone, full of sadness and a deep understanding, pulled him up short. Dean didn’t know how to answer and it made his throat clench and his chest ache. Dean bit his lip. He couldn’t cry; his eyes would get all red and puffy and he would never be able to hide it from Sam. “I’m alright.” He prayed Bobby would hear his choked-up answer and drop it.

“You call John?”

Not much better but Dean would take it. “Called, yes. Talked to him, no.” Dean heard Bobby swear. Some choice words that Dean couldn’t catch but got the gist. Stupid sonuvabitch. Idjit.

“Well,” Bobby’s voice came back brighter, faking casualness. “We don’t have beaches here but we got lakes, hope that’ll do.”

Dean smiled. “Screw the beach and the lake, I want biscuits.” Dean could taste them the moment he said it. Warm and flaky, a decent crunch on the outside giving way to the fluffy interior.

Bobby chuckled and the deep timbre of it, crackly as it was over the wires settled over Dean like a blanket. “Will do.”

Sam came back to the room not long after Bobby hung up and Dean choked his way through another coughing fit. He was carrying a tray of what looked like pastries, fruit, and coffee. Sam set the tray down on the table and Dean smelled something under the butter and sugar, something much more herbal. Tea, then.

“Slight change of plans,” Dean said as Sam filled their mugs with piping hot tea black enough to pass for coffee. Dean knew he didn’t have to ask if it was decaffeinated.

Sam hummed. “I figured.”

Dean took in Sam’s posture, rigid but trying desperately to be casual, and his tone, curt. “You don’t wanna go.”

Sam stopped just before his cup touched his lips. “No, I don’t.”

“Why?” Dean didn’t actually expect such a straight-forward answer. Sam loved Bobby. Sam just looked at him over the rim, through the steam that was billowing out. Waiting. “Oh.”

Sam made a noise of derision, “Yeah. Oh.” He bit into a croissant viciously, obscenely large, and still spoke around it. “Pretty sure Bobby wouldn’t be too fond of finding out what his surrogate sons get up to when no one’s watching. I’m not really in the mood to go back to hiding this.”

“Then we’ll tell him.” It probably was the looming death sentence talking but Dean couldn’t bring himself to worry about it. Because as much as Dean loved Bobby, he loved Sam more. It was easy enough. If Bobby couldn’t handle this then it was going to be a short visit and they would go on their less-than-merry way.

“And what if he tells Dad,” Sam looked more relaxed now, less like he had his panties all in a twist, but still wary.

Dean shrugged, “Last I checked, Dad ain’t answering. Also, last time I checked, we’re both adults. Dad finding out was scary when there was a chance he’d split us up but we’re two grown-ass men who don’t like to do things we don’t wanna do.”

Sam dug into his breakfast, placated. Dean did too and had to admit that while it wasn’t the starch and meat he preferred it was pretty damn good. The fruit was colorful and ripe and the croissants and Bear Claws were flaky and fresh-out-the-oven warm. Dean was pouring himself the last of the tea when Sam reached over with one of his freakishly long arms to his duffel. He pulled out a plastic bag and held it out to Dean. “I hope it’s okay,” Sam started to ramble the moment Dean took the bag from him. “You don’t have to use any of it if you don’t want to. I don’t know if you only draw when you get inspired or…”

Dean pulled out item after item. It was everything he’d never had the guts to buy, always talking himself out of spending money on things other than food, gas, ammo, and all the other necessities that came along with hunting. There was a pencil set, each pencil labeled with letters and numbers that Dean wanted to decipher immediately. A thick pad of paper with a brown cover and a drawing of a girl; Dean flipped through the fresh paper, flicking his nail on the edge of a sheet. The paper was thick and smooth, would hardly smudge if Dean was careful. There was a pack of erasers, white polymer ones, and a gray square that looked like clay. Erasers were usually something he happened upon, most pencils he had lying around were chewed up, bent, erasers long gone. Dean pulled out the last item and froze. It was a twenty-four pack of colored pencils. Dean recognized the brand immediately. It was pricey, really pricey, full tank of gas pricey and Sam had bought them without a second thought.

“Is that an okay brand? I didn’t know what any of the words meant but they looked nice. We can return–.”

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean tossed the empty bag to the side when it made a clunk against the table. He turned the bag over, watching the item scatter to the table. He heard Sam gasp and twitch like he wanted to reach over and snatch the box away. Dean fought not to laugh; Sam, who blushed at the mere mention of sex and looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him, had bought them lube. Dean could only imagine Sam perusing the shelves, glancing over his shoulder like he’d stolen something, trying not to look the cashier in the face. Dean picked up the lube and tossed it onto the bed, saying nothing because he knew it would make Sam squirm even more but also because he knew Sam would be relieved that Dean was going to forgo bust his chops. Not in the slightest, just not in the way Sam expected.

Dean pulled an HB out of the pencil pack and went to the second page of the sketchbook. He looked around the room, loveseat in front of the window, TV sitting on the modest-sized dressed, the bed. Dean glanced down at the table where the remnants of their breakfast sat. He turned his pad landscape and began sketching out the tabletop, light strokes at first to block out the shapes. Dean didn’t bother looking up from the paper. “Put your arm back where it was and sit still.” Not thirty seconds later Sam was tapping his fingers and bouncing his leg. Dean snorted. “I was going to draw you after this but you obviously wouldn’t last five minutes.”

“Sorry,” Sam settled his hand back to the table and his feet on the floor, cracking his neck for an excuse to move. “It feels weird. You’re just watching me and it’s too quiet.”

Dean hummed. They hadn’t turned the TV on. “Truth.”

“How did you,” Sam started. “Why do you–?”

“Spit it out, Sam.” Dean moved on from blocking out the space to adding his first layer of detail. Talking was easier this way; Dean didn’t feel the urge to lie or worry about forgetting his words when he got lost staring into Sam’s eyes and puppy dog face.

“How did you get so comfortable with…?”

“Comfortable with what? Talking? This? Sex?” Dean reached for the clay eraser. For some reason he expected it to be more like a hardened piece of Play-Doh but instead, it was soft and Dean rolled it into a snake between his palms.

“Yeah,” Sam scratched his head with his left hand, still not moving the arm that rested on the table.

Dean shrugged, testing out the eraser. No shavings. Nice. “I don’t know. I guess, talking is easy for anyone with the right person and the right thing to talk about.” They put the fruit rinds, cores, and seeds on a plate at the center of the table. At the middle of an orange rind that Dean had proudly peeled in one long piece, sat the pit of a plum, picked clean. “It’s not like anything’s changed for me, Sam. I didn’t wake up the other day and say, wow, I want to jump my brother’s bones. It was slow and steady, took years if I’m being honest. I think that makes it easier. If it was just one moment then I could have controlled it, told myself not to. Instead…being brothers just morphed into this, I guess.” Dean paused for a moment, pulling the page back to get a better look. It was coming along nicely considering he hadn’t drawn in almost a month. He let the table be the focus, drawing only Sam’s torso up to his shoulder before he let it bleed off the page. “Dad gave you The Talk a while ago, you want me to rehash?”

Sam snorted. “Dad tossed me a box of condoms and said don’t get anyone pregnant. You’re the one who taught me about sex, Dean, which is so messed up considering we ended up here.”

Dean stopped drawing and looked up for the first time since he began. He remembered Sam, a gangly twelve-year-old with hair that he had to keep flicking out of his eyes, asking him about girls and boys, using words straight out of an encyclopedia. Jesus. “That’s all?”

“Yeah,” Sam shrugged, his expression wary and confused like he was trying to decide if he had said too much. “What did he say to you?”

Dean shook his head and looked back down at his drawing. Dean had been eleven when Dad had sat him down to talk about the birds and the bees as if Dean didn’t babysit the seven-year-old he had watched grow in his mom’s belly. There had been no stork, just kicks against his cheek when he would lay against his mom’s stomach. Dad told him about girls and their periods and that’s why they could get pregnant and babies were something you planned because they were a lot of work. Condoms were how you could keep from getting a girl pregnant and safe from certain diseases, the whole nine yards. It was awkward but Dean hadn’t walked away with questions. “People put too much weight on sex. It’s just two…or more people trying to get each other off.”

“Jesus, Dean.”

“Don’t interrupt, Sam.” It was his question and he was going to answer it, damn it. “Sex is good, great if you’re doing it right. Intimacy is what gets people worked up. Only stupid people think that sex and intimacy are the same thing.” The pencil set had come with these white paper cones called tortillons, which Dean had never heard of so he didn’t even bother trying to pronounce it.

“There’s three types. Sex. Lovemaking. Fucking. Fucking’s what you do with someone you don’t care about. One night stands, friends with benefits. Sex is for making babies, coitus. Married people have sex. It’s an obligation, you do it because you feel you should even if you like it. Lovemaking, that’s the special one. What gets done behind closed doors, with the lights down low and candles lit. It’s for people in love.” Dean took the tip of one of the cones and dragged it gently over of his lighter strokes, prepared to erase. It smudged the line perfectly. Interesting. It definitely worked better than his fingertips, these things added finesse.

“Is that what we do, make love?”

Dean used the tortillon to draw out his shadows, deepening them to more realistic smudges. “You tell me.”

“Truth,” Sam said instead of answering.

“When was the last time you lied to me?”

“Pass.”

Dean’s head shot up. That was new. “You don’t get to pass.”

“Then I choose dare.” Sam had that indignant set of his jaw and experience told Dean this was going to be a losing battle but he was not about to back down.

“I dare you to tell me the last time you lied to me.”

Sam scoffed. “You can’t do that.”

“And you can’t pass.”

Sam’s nostrils flared with a sharp exhale. He looked ready to let Dean have it and honestly, Dean would have welcomed it because he was in the right for once. Sam, a stickler for the rules, was not about to convince him otherwise. Sam turned away from Dean, still keeping his pose. “Ask me something else, Dean. Please.”

Dean got a flash to back when he was eleven and Sam hadn’t quite turned seven yet. They were roughhousing and Sam’s elbow had caught the edge of the wall. Dean had winced in secondhand pain at the sound of Sam’s wail. Dad came running, saw there was no blood, and moved on. Dean massaged Sam’s arm, gentle circles of his thumb, ebbing the pain and soothing Sam with quiet words. You’re alright, Sammy. Dad had scolded him later. You’re not always gonna be there to make it better, Dean. If you keep babying him then he won’t know how to deal. Dean’s first thought had been, Why not? This was why.

Dean set down his pencil and pad. “No.”

“I’ve never lied to you.”

“Bullshit,” Dean snapped.

“Then that was the last time I lied to you.”

Checkmate.

“Fucker.” Dean swore. It wasn’t that Sam had bested him at his own game, it was that Sam clearly thought Dean was going to drop it. Sam wanted to play mind games? Fine, he could Shortz it up with the best of them. “Truth.”

Dean saw Sam relax back into his seat. “Have you ever been with a guy before?”

Dean scoffed; tongue pressed to his bottom jaw. “Pass.”

Dean watched him deflate. Good. “Dean.”

“Ask me something else, Sammy.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

Good question. “Pass.”

Sam sighed. “I answered your question, Dean.”

“No, you fucked me over.”

A sneer passed over Sam’s face. “I thought fucking was for people you don’t care about.”

“How’s this? Fuck you, Sam.” Dean got up. He got woozy and ignored it, made his way over to his duffel to get dressed. This place had a bar. He’d seen it on the way in, he couldn’t drink but he didn’t give a damn. He tossed clothes out with barely a second glance. He sat down and began to slip into his jeans. The moment he bent down; a pain lanced through his head like lightning. Dean winced and ignored it; he’d calm down when he got out of this damn room. He had missed Sam getting up and making his way over but saw his hands reaching out and swatted them away. “Don’t.”

“Okay, then. I’ll go,” Sam surrendered. “I’ll go, Dean. Just stay here.”

Dean watched Sam pull his shoes back on and grab his coat, out the door without another word or a backward glance.

****

_ When was the last time you lied to me? _

Dean’s words echoed around his head like a church bell. Sam shut the door behind him but couldn’t bear to go farther than just outside the door. He let his legs give out from under him and slid down the wall to the floor.

Sam was no saint. He lied as much as Dean did; as much as life required them to and then some. It would have been so easy if Dean hadn’t made him make that stupid promise. Sam hadn’t thought he was lying at the time; Dean would have noticed, he knew all of Sam’s tells and would have called him out on it. But when Sam thought about it, it was the last lie he told Dean. Sam wasn’t planning on downing some poison or taking a bullet to his mouth as Dean took his final breaths. Star-crossed lovers they may be but Romeo and Juliet they were not. Sam just didn’t know. He didn’t know how he was going to feel when Dean was gone, he had an idea and it was enough to scare him. Maybe he’d survive the hurt and pain, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe Sam would drink himself to death or start making reckless decisions, take on hunts by himself, not caring if he lived or died. Death by negligence.

Aside from the fact that Dean would be pissed at his answer, Sam didn’t even know where to start. There were too many unknowns and Dean was going to be helpless to making sure Sam kept up his end of the bargain. Which was why Dean knew he had to call in reinforcements.

Sam wasn’t stupid. He knew that was why Dean had wanted to call Bobby. Dean had known the moment they told Bobby he would invite them over, a place for Dean to spend his last days so Sam wouldn’t have to deal with it alone. Like it would matter. Bobby was a good friend, their father in all the ways that mattered, but Sam could have God Himself by his side and it would not have mattered because Dean was dead.

Sam knew he had handled it poorly. Dean hated being treated like he was dumb and Sam had done just that. Flexing his mental prowess with a stupid mind game like he was a fucking faerie with a riddle. All for nothing, because he could have played it off, lied by omission. Sam could have talked about how it was a lie to pretend like he was doing alright, how he pretended not to notice Dean trying not to cough too many times in an hour. Instead, he fucked it all up, like he had everything else in this situation. The jig was up. The game was over now, lost its luster. What was the point of asking the hard questions if they were just going to pass? Dean had shown him as much; he was going to pass on every question Sam asked because if Sam didn’t trust him with the truth then he sure as hell wasn’t going to. Dean was painstakingly black-and-white in that way, was one of the reasons that Sam loved him.

Unequivocal in his own special way that only Dean could think that coming out to Bobby as in love with his brother was going to be so cut and dry. Sam loved Bobby but he knew he could be just as old-fashioned and pig-headed as Dad. It had never even occurred to Dad that Sam might be interested in anyone but girls. Sure, they could hop in the car if Bobby told them to beat it but that didn’t mean that whatever harsh words he might spew weren’t going to hurt. As much as Dean tried to hide it, he was just as sensitive as Sam was, if not, more so. Dean was one of those lucky people that only cared about a few choice things but when he did he cared hard. Someone as important as Bobby tearing down something nearly as equally important like Sam was going to crush him. Which was why Sam was going to let Dean be the one to spill the beans just in case he changed his mind.

Sam heard the TV come on and the clank of their dishes as Dean cleaned up. Dean cleaned when he was stressed. Shit. Sam needed to fix this. Now. Dean being mad at him sucked on a good day but time was all they had now, limited time that was made up of these little moments that stupid fights got in the way of. The drive tomorrow was going to a bitch if Sam didn’t do something because Dean could be petty when he wanted to be and downright impish when he felt he was in the right, which he was.

Sam stood, thankful that he still had the keys in his pocket and left, hoping that his peace offering would be accepted.

****

Dean cleaned up their mess from breakfast and placed the tray outside their door. He wasn’t planning on finishing the drawing anyway. He took his time, taking breaks before he got too winded. The TV provided just enough interesting background noise to keep Dean from getting too deep in his thoughts. Dean snatched the sheets of their bed, hearing something clatter to the floor. Dean rolled his eyes and tossed the lube in the nightstand, alongside the complimentary Bible. Dean made the bed with efficiency only to climb on top of the comforter pencil and paper in hand.

There still wasn’t anything of interest in the room so Dean decided to just doodle. He tried out all the pencils and they were alright but Dean felt most comfortable with the HB; if he wanted light strokes he could make them himself. Dean sketched out ice cream cones at various stages of melting, beach balls, and fruit. He drew Yoda because it was good practice to draw all those wrinkles from memory. It felt good to get back into the swing of things, his pencil moving more fluidly the more he drew. He filled page after page, testing how small he could draw, how big, what he could draw without lifting the tip of his pencil. A pretty cool-looking toadstool it turned out.

Dean got hungry and since he had a feeling that Sam was going to bring food back, settled for ransacking Sam’s duffel for granola bars and nuts. He drew Batman and Robin, noticing that while he had drawn them with their masks, they resembled him and Dad. When he got stuck, Dean started just sketching body parts; hands, mouths, noses, eyes, and ears.

When his pencil became too loose and his sketchbook began to slide off his lap, Dean set them aside, barely sitting back up before he fell asleep. He dreamed of slanted eyes and pointed noses.

****

Sam got back to the room much later than he had anticipated. It was Saturday and lines and traffic were longer and heavier than was ideal. It also hadn’t helped that he had already parked at the hotel when he realized the time and remembered that he hadn’t eaten which meant that Dean would probably be hungry too.

Dean was asleep and didn’t so much as stir when Sam came in. Sam hated that he held his breath, watching Dean’s still body until his chest rose and fell. Satisfied, Sam set about emptying the bags. He set the food on the table, opening the sacks so the fries wouldn’t get soggy before he began to set up the room. It was clean as he had expected, which made it easier. Sam found himself stopping every few minutes to look at Dean, making sure he was breathing.

He was halfway finished when Dean moved, tossed and turned before opening his eyes, “S’mmy?” Dean coughed as he sat up.

“Hey.” Sam watched Dean’s gaze find him before straying to the candles. Sam cleaned out every store in a thirty-mile radius of their tealights and the best-scented candles he could find. Sam honestly wondered how some scents even made it to production. He was still trying to get the smell of Toasted Marshmallow out of his head. Smelled more like burnt hair and sugar. His favorite had been Honeyed Pear and had bought all four that had been on the shelf, while the tea lights were unscented. Sam went back to setting the candles on every open surface lighting them as he went.

He heard Dean scoff. “So you thought you could light candles and what, offer to fuck me?”

Sam set down the lighter, turning to Dean. “No. You said candles were for–.”

“I know what I said, Sam.”

Sam turned back to the candles, he had about half a dozen left. He carefully lit them, stalling to get his words right. Dean got angry at Sam in different ways. Sometimes he wanted Sam to explain himself, sometimes he wanted Sam to admit he was wrong to promise to do better, and sometimes Dean just wanted an apology, plain and simple. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

Sam tossed the lighter in the trash, he had struggled to get it to light a dozen candles ago. “For being an asshole.” He sat down on the bed across from Dean, folding his leg up under him. “Passing was a shit move in the first place and I just made it worst by being a dick.” Dean didn’t say anything but Sam could see the tension start to seep out of his shoulders. “If I had told the truth, it was just going to piss you off. And I really don’t want you to be pissed at me. Not now.”

Dean laughed at him, “Sam, if we were only asking questions to make us feel good the game would have ended a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “Do you still wanna know?” Sam didn’t even know which answer he was hoping for. If Dean said yes, then that meant Sam had to answer and if he said no, then that meant that he was probably still pissed and didn’t care.

“We’ve gotten this far, haven’t we?”

So Sam told him. Told Dean about how maybe lies happened after the fact and if Sam was being completely honest, he didn’t know enough to give a solid answer. But Sam promised that he would try. Try to live without Dean, make him proud, and even joked that it might be easier if Dean left him with some instructions.

Dean listened intently and when Sam finally stopped talking, said, “Maybe you passed because you knew I didn’t want to sit through you talking my ear off first thing in the morning.”

And just like that, they were back.

Eating Five Guys to the backdrop of candlelight was pretty odd but Sam liked it. The candles provided enough light that they didn’t need the lamps or TV to save them from the darkness. Dean pushed away the rest of his burger and wiped his hands before reaching over and grabbing his sketchbook off the bed. Sam finished off his water, before cracking open their last liter bottle. They were going through water a lot faster since Dean had upped his intake.

“Yes and burgundy,” Dean said, not looking up from his paper.

It took Sam a moment. Maybe he hadn’t fucked this up. “Truth.”

“If you could change anything about me, what would it be?”

Sam thought about it, all the things Dean did to piss him off and irked the hell out of him. He was rambunctious, obnoxious, corny, bossy, secretive, and so many other things that Sam couldn’t even put into words. Like what did you call it when someone always managed to make you laugh when you really didn’t want to. Or when someone was so in tune with you to the point of invasion. “Nothing.”

“I’m not mad anymore, Sammy,” Dean chuckled, “you don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying. If I changed anything about you, you wouldn’t be you.”

Dean hmphed. “Still call bullshit, but okay.”

Sam gathered up their trash, consolidating it all to fit in one bag. “You don’t even know, do you?”

Dean glanced up at him. Sam had the feeling he was drawing him. “Know what?”

“Dean, everyone was always jealous of me,” Sam tossed the bag into the bin across the room. “When we were in high school, people were nicer to me after they found out I was your brother. ‘Your brother’s so cool, so hot, so nice, so funny, so whatever.’ I didn’t get it. They weren’t wrong but I guess I was just used to it. I would see my friends and I thought it was weird their brothers didn’t hang out with them or cook them dinner or get them birthday gifts.” Dean wasn’t looking at him but his pencil had stopped moving. “Not to say that you have never bugged the absolute shit out of me but, yeah. If we’re talking numbers, eighty-twenty.”

“Well, sounds like your friends just had dicks for brothers.” Sam smiled. That was as close as Dean would get to taking a compliment. “Dare.”

“Show me what you’re drawing.”

Dean rolled his eyes, flipping his sketchbook around with little preamble. Sam had been right. Dean was drawing him. He was close to being done, he had drawn most of Sam’s features and Dean had made some headway in the background, drawing the details of the flickering candles, drew the skeleton of what would become Sam’s body.

Sam didn’t know much about art but had taken Art Appreciation like every freshman. Dean’s style would probably have been classified as realism maybe with a touch of impressionism. They were more so detailed sketches. Dean never bothered to erase his guidelines or the stray marks he ended up not using, giving every drawing a rushed feeling.

“Dare.”

“I dare you to sit still for the love of Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“Uh-huh. Truth.”

“How would you rate your looks on a scale of one to ten?”

Dean rolled his eyes, “Eight on a good day.”

Sam gave Dean the most baleful look he could muster. “Truth.”

“Your favorite place.”

“The Impala.”

“Truth.”

Dean went back to drawing, not saying anything for a while. Sam wondered if he was trying to come up with a question or trying to figure out if he should ask. “You said you’ve thought about me since you were twelve. What did you think about?” Sam opened his mouth. “And, Sam? Don’t leave anything out.”

Sam stood to make his way over to the phone. “I need alcohol for this.”

****

Not five minutes later, was there a knock at the door. Sam got up to answer it and Dean heard murmured pleasantries before the door was shut and Sam was coming back with a tray and five airplane bottles of Makers’ Mark, two old-fashioned glasses, and a bucket of ice. Sam overturned one glass and filled it with ice before he cracked open the bottles in quick succession and filled it to the brim. He downed half of it and paused before finishing it.

Dean had been drinking long enough to know exactly what Sam was feeling. The initial burn on his tongue, the heat sliding down his throat and settling like burning embers in his stomach, the warmth settling in his bones. Sam’s cheeks started to redden and his chest was catching up. Dean turned to a new sheet, waiting patiently.

“I, um. I liked last night.” Dean snorted. “Don’t laugh, Dean.”

Dean looked up because Sam sounded hurt and that was the exact opposite of what was supposed to be happening right now. “Not laughing at you.” Dean thought about it. “Well, I am but not…Jesus, Sam. Do you think I’m gonna make fun of you or something? You have about a thousand other things I can rag on you for. So just tell me. Worst case scenario, I say I’m not into it.” Which Dean highly doubted because he was willing to try almost anything once.

Sam fiddled with his glass before adding more ice and emptying two more bottles into it. Dean watched him drink with just the smallest amount of pride that he had been the one to teach Sam how to hold his liquor. Sam’s eyes were closed and Dean wanted to push him, make Sam keep them open and look at him but beggars couldn’t be choosers. So he kept his mouth shut and went back to drawing.

“The first time, it was kind of an accident, I was jacking off and I kind of just thought if you jacked off too and then I was coming thinking about you touching yourself. But when I was like fourteen. I thought about our first time.” Sam cleared his throat. Dean listened raptly as Sam painted a vivid picture.

Sam, taking advantage of the empty house, would stretch out on Dean’s bed in nothing but one of Dean’s worn shirts. Sam thrusting into his fist wishing it was Dean’s, unable to keep himself from calling out his name, loud enough for Dean to hear. Dean hears and walks in on Sam. Before Dean can get a word out, Sam would start crying, apologizing, begging for forgiveness. Dean would silence him with a kiss. Dean would open Sam with the utmost patience, kissing him if it ever hurt. And when Dean was finally inside him, Sam would make him promise that this wouldn’t be the last time.

Dean saw the movement of Sam’s shrug. “Sorry, it’s not Skinemax.”

Damn right it wasn’t. It was better. Rely on Sam to have his favorite fantasy be one that was entirely possible, completely believable. Dean could see it so clearly in his mind. Sam, not yet hitting that first huge growth spurt, swimming in Dean’s hand-me-downs, lying on their bed in nothing but Dean’s shirt and a pair of boxers, a hand through the slit and Dean’s name on his lips. Dean could only imagine the self-control he needed to pass up seeing a moment like that, his horror of Sam crying and trying to make it better. Dean would talk himself hoarse to make sure Sam never felt an ounce of shame and check in every ten seconds because if Sam changed his mind that was okay and Dean wouldn’t treat him any differently. It wouldn’t have hurt because Dean would have prepped Sam for hours until his fingers were cramping. After all, Sam’s first time was not going to be anything less than perfect.

“Porn’s overrated,” Dean murmured as he added the final touches to his drawing. Sam chuckled and it sounded like drums. Dean felt two words in the back of his throat like an itch, he had to say them or it would never stop, forever in the back of his mind. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Dean looked up, no longer able to pretend he was still drawing. “Because we can’t, I can’t.”

“Dean, you lost me. Can’t what?”

“Do all the things we want.”

Sam scoffed, “Dean, you said it yourself; intimacy is what’s important. I don’t think we can get much more intimate than this. When I’m not satisfied I’ll let you know.” Sam looked down, “Can I see?”

Dean signed his initials and date at the bottom before sliding his sketchbook over. Sam shook his head as he looked at his own face illuminated by candlelight. “It’s really good, Dean.”

Dean swatted at him, “You’re biased.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t good.”

“Truth,” Dean said because this Sam could go all night with this back and forth.

“Top or bottom?”

Dean held back a snicker because he could tell Sam was trying to be bolder. “Yes.” Sam laughed, much harder than was warranted, meaning that the alcohol was finally getting to him. Dean wasn’t about to call him out on it. He liked tipsy Sam. Tipsy Sam was looser, funnier, never too far from a laugh.

“Truth.”

“Are you a virgin, Sam?” Dean didn’t quite know why he thought so but it was just a feeling, an instinct. An instinct that could have been wrong. He had remembered Sam telling him about how Casey Michaels kissed him in the fourth grade, blushing because it felt weird. Dean had thought that Sam would have told him if he had gone any further, but maybe not. Dean sure as hell hadn’t told Sam about his first time, especially not with a guy. Though at the time, it had seemed like Dean would have been crossing this imaginary line if he had. Dean thought about clarifying that he meant penetration but Sam had to know what he meant after what they had been doing for the last few days.

“Why do you care?”

“What do you mean, why do I care? It’s important.”

“No, it’s not.” Sam’s voice was peevish now, like a child wanting to be treated like an adult. “We’ve had sex, right? We’ve done things.” Sam was definitely getting drunk.

Dean sat back. Drunk or not, Dean was getting a straight answer. “Sam, am I your first?”

Sam said nothing, turned his face away. It was the smallest of nods; a blink and Dean would have missed it. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I should have told you.”

Yeah, Sam. You should have.

Dean made his way to Sam, ready to lean against the table if he needed to. He turned Sam’s face to him, unsurprised by the tears that glittered his face, shining like oil in the candlelight. “I know, it’s crazy, a twenty-two-year-old virgin holding out, saving himself for his brother. What a freak.”

“Hey,” Dean leaned in, “if you’re a freak so am I.” Sam’s kisses were clumsier, his lips struggled to find purchase against Dean’s so he held him still and moved for him.

Maybe he could do this. Maybe they could. They would just have to take it slow. So slow. So slow that if they went any fucking slower they would be stopped. He could just keep himself calm, save his energy, pay attention to his body. Pay attention to Sam’s. They could do this.

Dean had to say something before the moment was gone. Couldn’t rely on Sam to tell him what he wanted. Sam wouldn’t dare ask, wouldn’t trust Dean to tell him no. He’d be right too, Dean couldn’t say no. Not to this. Not now.

“Sam, do you want to?”

Sam bit his lip, his teeth grazed Dean’s with the movement, they were so close. “We can’t.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Sam’s eyes shut, leaving no space for tears, they ran like rivers down his cheeks. “Yeah.” He stood, gently guiding Dean to the bed even though it wasn’t even three feet away and Dean could have made it on his own. “Can I just have a minute?”

As if Dean would say no.

Sam closed the door to the bathroom behind him and Dean heard the shower sputter on.

****

Sam stood stripped in front of the mirror. He took in his flushed skin and glassy eyes. He was shaking.

****

Dean always considered himself lucky. After the pain of Mom dying subsided, he knew it could have gone a lot worse. He could have lost Dad too or they could have lost Sam. He and Sam could have been like regular brothers or barely tolerated one another. He could have gotten there too late and Sam would have died in the fire that killed Jess. It could have been Sam with a dying heart.

But it wasn’t.

Because Dean was lucky.

So damn lucky.

****

Sam let the cold water run over his skin, enduring it like a punishment.

****

Dean wasn’t nervous. He couldn’t be. Wouldn’t let himself be. Sam was going to be anxious enough for both of them. Dean was eager. His hands had shaken with energy as he slowly undressed. Dean sat back down on the edge of the bed facing the TV, with the comforter pulled back. He toyed with his amulet, brought the cool brass to his lips.

Sam came out of the bathroom smelling of soap and cold water.

Dean stood and couldn’t help but stare.

Sam was naked, arms hung awkwardly at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them. He looked golden in the candlelight. His steps were slow and deliberate. He wouldn’t look anywhere but Dean, eyes wide with worry and anticipation as if he was worried that Dean would disappear.

The moment Sam was close enough, Dean pulled him into him by his hand.

“You okay?” They both spoke. Dean chuckled and Sam relaxed.

Dean watched Sam get on the bed before he did the same. They knelt, facing each other. Dean slipped his amulet off his head and slid it over Sam’s. “It’s not my shirt but…” Dean saw the realization dawn on Sam and his eyes filled. Dean leaned in. “Can I?”

Sam nodded.

Dean liked kissing. He could do it for hours even with his busted heart. There was no exertion, just the movement of their mouths, tilts of their heads, bends of necks. Dean held Sam to him with hands at his back, thumbs pressing into the cuts of his hips. Sam’s long fingers were wrapped in his hair and for the first time, Dean wished he had grown it out.

Dean gently pushed Sam away, a soft press at his shoulders until his back hit the bed. Dean took over the space between his legs and ran his hands over Sam’s body, his skin smooth over the taut muscle. Dean bent down and let his lips run ragged over Sam’s stomach. He kissed his way down, past Sam’s cock to the smooth skin of his inner thighs. Dean leaned into his tremors. Sam gasped at the first touch of Dean’s mouth at his hole, immediately spread his legs, tacitly asking for more. Dean settled on his belly and went to work. He had only ever been on the receiving end, but Sam was telling him plenty with his moans and jerks of his hips.

Sam liked when Dean’s tongue was soft and pliant, making long drags over his rim. Dean hummed and knew Sam felt it. He spread his legs even wider, chanting yes and Dean’s name over and over again. Dean took his time, enjoying making Sam writhe on his tongue as much as he did.

Dean sucked Sam’s balls into his mouth and lapped at the center. Sam’s hands curled into the bedsheets, trying to shake his head as he tossed it against the pillows. Dean held Sam open, laving his tongue over his hole until Sam was moaning even louder.

Sam pulled Dean to him by his hair and Dean shook as Sam lay his mouth over his, showing him that he didn’t care, that nothing they did was dirty. Dean pulled away for just a moment, Sam’s mouth slipped from his, finding their new home at his neck. Dean reached under the comforter, pulling out the lube, and warmed it on his fingers, “Is this okay?”

Sam’s eyes were hooded and Dean couldn’t help the urge to feel Sam’s gasps against his tongue, breathe his air. Just like Sam had fantasized, just like Dean required, they took it slow. Dean’s fingers didn’t cramp but Sam got impatient, pushing back when Dean finally pressed in two fingers.

Dean took in the sight before him and it was exquisite. Sam was exquisite. Dean wanted to memorize every detail so he could draw it later, even though pen to paper would have nothing on the real thing. It would be for him, to remind him of this if Time ever became cruel enough to take this memory away. Sam laid out before him like spilled honey, his head tossed back exposing the rippled column of his throat, stomach pulled tight, and his mouth opened just enough to say Dean’s name. This was how Sam’s first time should be. This was how Dean’s first time should have been.

“Should’ve waited. Should’ve waited for you, Sammy.”

Sam had a look on his face like Dean had said something stupid and so wrong. It was a comfort. Dean pressed in his ring finger alongside his other two, pressing his forehead to Sam’s before he could wince. They were so close now, having no choice but to breathe each other’s air.

It was too soon; Dean had barely stretched him enough and he wanted this to be perfect. Dean spread his fingers, pressing them against the walls, trying to make them give. Sam responded immediately; tensed as his back arched and he grabbed at Dean’s wrist, meeting his hand, tacitly telling Dean he was ready, needed him right now.

Sam’s hands were on Dean’s face, locking their eyes as he ultimately slid inside Sam. It was firm heat that had them both shivering.

Dean pulled Sam’s hips to his, pushing in even deeper as he rocked into Sam slow. It was perfect, everything he had been trying to achieve with people who were less than second-rate compared to Sam. Dean had been mining for rhinestones with a diamond in his back pocket. Every thrust punched a moan from Sam’s throat, keeping Dean from needing to check in.

Sam began to meet his strokes and Dean desperately wanted to go harder and faster and deeper and all the other things he had played over and over again in his mind to make Sam feel good but he had to settle for this. But Sam wasn’t complaining, shown in the way he was pushing into Dean, his hips canting up. He was holding Dean close, keeping him from pulling away.

“You feel so good, Sammy. Better than anyone.” Sam groaned and brow furrowed, not believing Dean meant it. “Swear to God. Never wanted anyone else but you.”

Dean felt himself tiring but refused to give in, the need to make sure that this was perfect for Sam outweighing his exhaustion. But Sam must have seen it, the crack in the façade because one moment Dean was looking down at Sam and the next he was looking up. Sam was biting his lip so hard that it was more white than pink.

Dean kept Sam balanced with strong hands at his waist as Sam picked up the pace. The only sounds in the room were the rustle of the sheets and their heavy breathing. Sam pulled Dean’s hand from his waist and held it to his neck. Dean felt a tingle in his arm, not unlike the staticky feeling that came right after numbness. Dean ignored it and pulled Sam down to him, his other arm wrapping around Sam’s waist as he met his thrusts.

Sam’s gasps became Dean’s next breath as he felt himself get closer to the edge. “Dean,” was all Sam could think to say. Dean just nodded, because he understood, of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he? Sam felt his eyes well up and prayed that he shut them before Dean could see.

Ecstasy rippled through them both in one solid surge. Cold heat ran through them until they felt it at the tips of their fingers and the ends of their toes. Dean heard his voice but couldn’t make sense of the sounds. Sam and Dean curled into one another as they rode the waves that followed, unable to do anything but give in to it. 

****

Sam awoke the next morning to soft thumps with a smile on his face. The room was still shrouded in darkness and gave the impression that night was still going strong. He stretched, nestling deeper into Dean’s chest. Sam wanted to draw out this moment for as long as possible; he felt warm and safe and content and wasn’t about to give it up for anything.

Sometimes Sam wondered what his own face looked like when he was asleep. If he was one of those people who slept with their mouth open or if he was lucky enough to look as good as Dean. Dean looked even younger and at peace and Sam couldn’t help but run his finger over the crest of his cheekbone and lay his lips at Dean’s temple.

Dean twitched and Sam knew he was awake. “If it’s before ten, I’ll kick your ass.”

Sam looked over at the clock just as it flicked to 8:59. “Oops.”

Dean half-sat up, propping himself up on his elbows to take a glimpse at the clock. “Go get me breakfast.”

Sam knew Dean expected him to roll his eyes, probably kickstart their usual banter whenever one of them got a little too bossy.

_ Not your damn maid. _

_ But you’d look so cute in one of those outfits… _

_ Kiss my ass. _

Sam knew they could have ordered room service but one of the many perks of living in each other’s pockets was that Sam could tell when Dean needed to be alone.

So instead Sam kissed Dean deep before he got up to get dressed. “Okay.”

Sure enough, when Sam came back, bagel sandwiches and juice in tow, Dean was sitting on the bed, dressed, with his phone in hand. “Told Bobby we’d be there in a few hours.” They hadn’t unpacked so they took their time with their breakfast. Took careful bites and slow sips to Looney Tunes.

It was so similar yet so different to a thousand other Saturday mornings; two brothers in a hotel eating breakfast and watching cartoons. The brothers, no longer boys, but men, their breakfast; buttered bagels topped with egg, cheese, and meat, as gone were the days of cold cereal, the cartoons now vintage.

Sam risked a glance to Dean, who was laughing anytime Mel Blanc had hit the punchline just right. It was endearing to see Dean so stress-free, neither of them had gotten a chance to experience a regular childhood but Sam’s had been parsecs closer to average than Dean’s had. Sam liked to think that that was why Dean was so goofy and self-indulgent, he was forced to grow up fast and took every opportunity to seize the childhood that had been taken from him.

So maybe they wouldn’t get to check everything off Dean’s bucket list or travel the world the way he knew Dean had always wanted but Sam could give Dean this; easy simple moments where it felt like nothing was wrong and no one existed but the two of them.

Dean must have felt Sam’s gaze because he turned to Sam, waiting for Sam to explain the staring. Sam opted for a small shrug, knowing Dean would understand even if Sam didn’t. “You ready, Sammy?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

They were only about six hours from Sioux Falls and since Sam had filled up the tank there was no reason to make any stops. Sam could feel Dean getting more and more restless as they got closer to Bobby’s. Dean stopped letting the tapes play through, switching one out for another after only a song or two, he was fiddling with his amulet, which Sam rarely, if ever, saw him do. Dean would realize he was and drop the pendant only to have his hand right back a few minutes later. They didn’t talk because every time Sam tried to strike up a conversation Dean only half-listened and gave placeholder answers like that’s nice, Sammy or yeah, uh-huh so Sam gave up and let the hum of the car take over the silence.

Sam honestly couldn’t tell if it was excitement or anxiety that had Dean feeling antsy. More likely it was the latter; Dean could go see Bobby anytime he had a mind to once he had started hunting alone. Sam understood that if Bobby meant half as much to Dean as he did to Sam then this was going to be a little different than telling John.

Dean respected his role models, as Sam did, the difference being that Dean never let them fall off their pedestal while Sam never had a mind to put them on one in the first place. Sam was sure that it was their unusual upbringing of never setting down any roots that had made it second nature for Sam to cut himself off from people. John kicked him out for wanting more than hunting, told him to never come back and Sam took it in stride, any hesitation being for the possibility of losing Dean.

If Bobby cut them off, Sam could honestly say he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to care. Not with the state of their lives as it were. Would anything matter after Dean? Sam doubted it. But as much as Dean loved to pretend that caring was something for people less inclined than him, Bobby’s rejection was going to crush him.

Forgetting emotions for a moment, it was the logical conclusion. Their surrogate father disowning them while their biological one couldn’t find it in him to pick up the phone was going to be too much for Dean to bear. So as much as Sam loved Bobby and John, he’d drop them both by the wayside if it meant it left his arms free to catch Dean.

Once they reached the Lincoln county line, Sam pulled over. He said nothing as he got out, knowing Dean would follow. Dean joined him at the side of the car. They were facing empty plains and only the same stretched out behind them just on the other side of the road. Sam remembered as a kid wondering what it would be like to just get out and walk and walk and walk until he reached the edge of the world. The premise, ridiculous to believe as an adult, still gave Sam hope. Maybe he could walk and walk and walk until he found somewhere that death could never rear its ugly head and only the present remained, forever new memories being made. If Dean’s heart could take it, Sam would try.

“You know I’ve got your back, right?” Dean said nothing and that was as good as a 'go on'. “Whatever happens, whatever he says…I’m going to be right there. Just say the word and we’ll go to the beach.”

Dean stayed quiet, keeping his eyes on the grasslands before them. The silence stretched on for so long that Sam had to force himself not to fill it, letting Dean get his thoughts together even if he didn’t have the mind to voice them.

“Dare,” Dean said and when he turned to Sam his smile outshined the sun that beamed down above them in every way.

Sam returned the best he had.

*****

Bobby was waiting for Sam and Dean ready to meet them as he always had; in an old rocking chair, rifle propped between his legs, and beer laced with holy water –soda before they were of age– sitting in a cooler by his feet, Rumsfeld just on the other side, snoring.

Dean got out slowly, giving Sam enough time to round the car and walk with him. He tried not to make it too obvious how much he leaned on Sam as they made their way up the stairs. The usual tense pleasantries were exchanged until Bobby watched them drink and swallow. Even watered down, Dean didn’t remember beer tasting that much like grass.

The tension eked out Bobby and his calculating glare morphed into a soft, sad expression that Dean didn’t have to look at too long because Bobby was dragging him into an embrace. It was a tight one and long because Bobby didn’t seem keen to let go until Dean hugged him back. Bobby smelled like denim and freshly-baked bread. Dean turned his face into his collar because who knew if this was going to be their last. Dean wasn’t about to let ego get in the way of this. Bobby’s thick arms were thumping against his back, hard enough to make Dean want to cough but welcomed.

As long as their embrace was, it wasn’t long enough for Dean and he found himself aching for it when Bobby pulled back. Bobby put a heavy hand on Dean’s cheek. “Idjit.” He murmured, an easy smile crawling out from his beard.

Sam got his own hug too. Shorter, but no less meaningful. Bobby ushered them inside and let them get comfortable. Sam and Dean toed off their shoes and hung up their coats as Rumsfeld padded in behind them. Bobby led them to the kitchen where he had tea and biscuits set up for them at the center of the kitchen table.

“Can’t remember the last time I drank something that wasn’t caffeine…or fermented.”

“You know I just read an article,” Sam said, “about this new thing called water. You should try it.”

Dean chuckled as he sat down, back to the interior of the house because as protected as Bobby’s grounds were, he could never be too safe. Bobby cuffed Sam on the back of the head. “Don’t sass me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sam laughed as he filled their cups.

Dean’s first sip warmed his tongue and as he swallowed doused the cold in him. His body, tensed to keep from shivering too much, relaxed.

“So what’s the thing you need to tell me?” Bobby was nonchalant and it was no show. What could be more important than the I’m dying bomb? Dean had called that morning with the premise of letting Bobby know their ETA but also to force himself into a corner. Telling Bobby that they had something important to tell him, knowing that he would bring it up, would keep Dean from chickening out.

He had spent the whole ride, not worrying about Bobby’s reaction, there wasn’t much he could do about that, but wondering exactly what to say. There was no manual for this. Bobby had lived under the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell mindset. He knew Dean was into guys and girls and Dean knew that he knew and it never had to be discussed. This was different. This was extremely different. This needed to be out in the air if they were going to stay because Sam was right. They had hidden this from themselves, each other, and the world, and now that they had admitted it, acted on it, there was no going back.

Dean’s hand was resting on his leg, bouncing with it. He felt Sam’s leg brush against his under the table, stilling it. “Sam and I,” Dean took a deep breath. “Sam and I are together.” Dean looked at Sam as he said the words, couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.

Bobby said nothing. Bobby did nothing. He didn’t flinch or shout or ask Dean to repeat himself. Bobby did nothing but take a long sip from his mug and lean back in his chair.

“How long?”

Dean started to answer but stopped himself. This was one of those rare questions that had more than one answer, both as true as the other. Sam had kissed him two days ago. But just last night that same Sam had explained to Dean in vivid detail the things he had wanted from the ripe age of fourteen.

“He didn’t abuse me if that’s what you’re asking.” Sam’s voice was low and full of warning.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bobby deadpanned. There was no bite to Bobby’s words, no sarcasm. He seemed indifferent. After a long moment, Bobby cleared his throat. “Your daddy dropped you two off because he wanted you both to have a decent Christmas. Sam couldn’t sleep and came down. He was in that questioning phase. Never heard the word ‘why’ so many times in my damn life. He saw a picture of Karen. Asked who she was, where she was. He didn’t know what a wife was. I told him when two people love each other they get married, and explained the meaning of marriage best I could to make a five-year-old understand.” Bobby switched to whiskey, adding two-fingers worth to his tea. “Just when I thought Sam was gonna start in with another round of questions he said, ‘I wanna marry Dean.’” Bobby chuckled.

“I laughed, put him to bed. John laughed too when I told him about it.” Bobby cleared his throat. “John called me once, told me how you two couldn’t sleep alone. Every night you two would go to sleep in separate beds and every morning John would find you two curled up beside each other. We laughed, thinking it was cute. We never had siblings so what did we know. Then you two got older and John said it was like pulling teeth to get you two to stay in your own beds.”

Dean remembered that talk vividly. He had just started high school and John had rented them a house. It was a small two-bedroom, much closer to town than any other place they had stayed in and walking distance from the schools. The house had come furnished and the smaller bedroom had two twin beds. John had pulled Dean to the side that night and told him that Sam needed to start sleeping alone, that there was no reason to squeeze into a bed made for one and that they were getting too old for it. Dean had agreed. Dean also never had the heart to tell his father that he set an alarm on his watch to switch beds before he came in each morning. They had stopped sharing eventually but Dean had let it be on Sam’s time.

“Sam was fifteen when John told me that he broke a gas station attendant’s nose and wouldn’t tell him why. John told me to ask Sam about it when he came around.”

Dean remembered that too. Sam wouldn’t tell him either which piqued his curiosity even more but Sam was as much a Winchester as he was and Winchesters could keep secrets like the dead. Sam’s hand tightened around the handle of his mug.

“Sam wouldn’t tell me but I’d got the gist. I’d seen that look on Dean’s face more times than I care to count when someone had had the mind to be anything less than cordial with Sam. I tried to talk to John about it, make him think it was his idea; leave one of you behind with me while he got some one-on-one time with the other. You want to know what he said? What, John I’m-Such-a-Hardass-I-Can-Never-Listen-To-Anyone Winchester, told me? ‘Dean would never go for it’.”

Bobby finally looked up at them both. “You want to know how I feel, what I think? I feel like telling John, ‘I told you so’.”

Dean felt the urge to sigh with relief but Bobby had given them nothing close to a blessing. The indifference was killing him.

“I’m not saying I don’t care. To hell with being gay, this ain’t ideal. You’re brothers and if Dean wasn’t–,” Bobby shook his head, “I should be trying my damndest to get you both to see the light, just because it ain’t wrong, don’t make it right. What this is ain’t nothing but John’s fault and nothing you two say is gonna change my mind.” Bobby stood, “I’ll allow it because, God help me, I don’t have the heart to watch you two walk out that door. But if you’re waiting for me to give you my blessing, don’t.”

Bobby’s words were harsh but his sad grin softened the blow. “Glad to have you here, boys.” And with that Bobby retreated to his garage, a mumbled invitation to get settled eked out just as the door shut.

_______________________________

As time went on, Dean could move less and less on his own and had to rely on Sam for almost everything. It seemed that Dean had been holding on, waiting for the right moment to loosen his grip. Dean slept more often than not and in the recliner rather than a bed. At first, Sam had thought it was Dean saving face for Bobby but Dean made it clear that sleeping on his back made his chest hurt. Sam was glad that Dean still had the energy to draw. Bobby modeled for him a couple of times but could only sit still about as much as Sam. Sam would never forget the way Dean’s face lit up when Bobby had looked through his sketchbook and said, “This right here is talent.”

_______________________________

Turns out the doctor was wrong.

Dean didn’t last a month. He lasted two.

It was a cold Sunday in December, one of the coldest in history the weatherman reported for the region. Looking back, Sam thought about how fitting that was.

Dean had gone to the bathroom. He’d insisted that it was going to be a cold day in hell before Sam helped him take a piss. Sam felt like he was up before he’d heard the thump. Bobby had run out on errands, there was only one person it could have been.

Sam found Dean trying to prop himself up against the wall, only moving his left side. Sam slid across the floor, catching Dean before he faceplanted. “Sam.” He said the name like it was a word he’d forgotten the definition of, though not its connotation, its importance.

Dean had lost his appetite a couple of weeks after getting to Bobby’s only ever managing a few bites of anything. Even with his new sedentary life, he lost weight; weight he couldn’t spare. But his hand gripped at Sam’s arm tight, like he was using all his strength to hold on. Sam waited patiently, as he always did, for his brother to come back to the present.

“S’mmy? Where are we?”

“Bobby’s.”

Dean tried to stand. “Where’s Dad?”

“On a hunt.”

It was always best to keep the answers as simple as possible.

“Oh.” Dean’s eyes slowly trekked around the hallway, settling on the floor.

“You fall, Sammy?”

Sam shook his head.

“I fell?”

Sam nodded.

“Oh.”

Dean tried to get up once again, only managing to shift so he was leaning against the wall. His hand loosened so Sam took it in his. It was cold, clammy.

“You mind if we just sit?”

Sam shook his head and folded his legs out from under him. He was leaning up against the wall now too, shoulder to shoulder with Dean. It was better this way; Dean couldn’t see him cry.

Dean rested his head on his shoulder.

“Tired,” He muttered.

Sam got caught off guard by a sob; unable to stifle it. Dean slowly looked up at him. Sam saw his right hand twitch like he wanted to use it.

Dean didn’t let go of his hand. “What you cryin’ for, Sammy?”

Sam shrugged. Because he didn’t know. Why the hell was he crying? They both knew this was going to happen, had known for months.

Dean tapped his fingers to the beat on the back of Sam’s hand as he hummed. Sam recognized it immediately, new tears flooded to the surface.

He wished he knew the words.

Dean stopped abruptly; his hand squeezed Sam’s vice-tight, so taut he shook. “Chest hurts.”

Sam moved his arm so Dean’s head slid into his lap, never letting his hand go.

Their hands came to rest at Dean’s chest, just over his heart.

His breath was shallow. The rhythm slow.

“Truth.”

Sam shook his head, wringing his tears loose. He didn’t want to play.

“Truth.” His voice feather-light, adamant nonetheless.

“Do you love me?”

His lips twitched into a smirk. “You tell me.”

Sam leaned down, pressed his lips to a smile for the last time.

Dean gasped when he pulled away. His stare was blank, pupils were blown wide.

His right arm twitched again.

Sam pulled his hand to his face. Colder, now.

Dean sighed like he finally got what he had been asking for.

“You’re it.”

_FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is really the end. There will be no second part. This is not a series.


End file.
